


A Bird's Cage

by silver_blacker



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:31:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_blacker/pseuds/silver_blacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The transformation and corruption of Sansa Stark under the wing of Petyr Baelish in the Eyrie. Story begins shortly after Lysa's fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am an unpromising writer with bad grammar and a very shallow use of vocabularies. English is not my native language and I am never good at languages (yup not even my mother tongue). Expect the repeated usage of some particular words or phases. This is my first written fanfic so please go easy on me. I don't know if I will write anything explicit afterwards so don't have high hope, on whatever you are hoping for. I cannot guarantee a regular update but I will try my best.

Alayne Stone wakes from her sleep. The sky outside her windows is dark still, as dark as the ashes in her dreams.

  
She dreamt of Winterfell, the home of a little bird whom she could no longer relate to. A past life, it seemed. She is Alayne Stone now, the bastard daughter of the Lord Protector of the Vale. 

In her dreams she was happy. She recalled the smiles of her long lost siblings. It came to her as a shock that she could not remember their faces. Everything seems to be a blur. It has been a while since she last wept for them. They mean nothing more than names to her now. Alayne does not weep. She has no siblings.

  
Alayne turns in her bed, thinking about Winterfell, with the fire burning and the little children screaming in their beds. Nor was Alayne or the little bird present when Winterfell burnt. But it all seemed so vivid. She could smell the smoke and feel the heat. The darken bodies of two children haunted her. It was the smell of burnt flesh that woke her.

  
Alayne touches her cheek. It is wet with tears. She quickly wipes them away and closes her eyes.

  
Alayne does not weep.

***************

Morning comes as an unwanted guest. A ray of sunshine wakes Alayne when one of her handmaids opens the curtains.

  
"Lord Baelish requires your presence, m'lady," said Claire, while putting a basin of warm water beside her bed. Claire is a Stone, just like Alayne. The other handmaids call her Claire the Cold, it is not hard to guess why. Alayne holds her suspicion that Claire envies her, for it is not common for a bastard girl to rise so high as to the Lady of the Vale.

  
"Father can wait," Alayne replies, with a lazy yawn. Petyr has taught her well. It is important to remind everyone she is just a bastard, one without the manners and willingness of a highborn lady.

  
Claire's lips twitch in disbelief. It is subtle but still noticeable. "I think it is urgent," then she quickly adds, "m'lady," after remembering it is the Lady of the Vale she is talking to.

  
Alayne finds annoyance and defiance in her tone. Suppressing her urge to laugh, she slides off her bed and put on her morning gown.

  
"Alright then, take me to my father."

***************

"Father, you wish to see me?" She enters and closes the door behind her. Although it is still early in the morning, Petyr is already working on plans and schemes behind a pile of books and letters.

  
"Aye, daughter," he looks up, with a smile on his face, his always mocking face. "I hope you slept well."

  
Courtesies and courtesies. Alayne wonders who he is truly behind his mask. Petyr Baelish has been nothing but kind to her, even back in King's Landing where spiders and lions roam. But still, Alayne knows Littlefinger does not display kindness unless he is certain he gets his reward afterwards. This man promises her Winterfell, but what is it that he wants?

  
"Yes, father," Alayne said, "I had a very sweet dream." A lie, but it does not really matter whether Alayne sleeps well or not. Littlerfinger does not give a damn, she has decided.  
Petyr sets his eyes on hers, grey and green and betraying nothing. A slight pause and he gives her a warm and fatherly smile.

  
"I am pleased," he stands up and kisses her on the cheek, his beard scratching her face. "There is nothing more reassuring for a father than to hear her daughter is well and happy." He mutters. His lips linger on her face and his hands slowly rising up to her shoulders.

  
Alayne giggles and pushes him away, all seemingly like a child's act.

  
Something flickers across his eyes. But if he is displeased about his daughter's behaviours, he does not show.

  
"My darling child, I have some good news for you." He says cheerfully, as if nothing happened. " I have made a marriage proposal between you and Harrold Harryn, the heir to Eyrie should any..." He licks his lips, "misfortune happens to our Sweetrobin."

  
Alayne blinks blankly, it would be a lie if she says she is not shocked. "But-- but I--"

  
"There is no 'but', sweetling," Petyr smirks, clearly enjoying her reactions. "Trust me, a father does not provide anything for his daughter if it is not the best for her." He once again puts his hands on her shoulders, and she does not fight this time. " Now, does this not deserve a kiss?" He whispers in her ear, as his hands lifts her chin up. She looks him in his eyes, and sees eagerness and...something else that she cannot read.

"Yes father," she says softly, surrendering herself.

  
"That's a good girl." He kisses her on her mouth, filling her with his minty breath.


	2. Chapter 2

After breaking her fast, Alayne storms back to her bedchamber, slamming every door on the way.

Robert was extremely naughty today. Alayne lost her temper when he once again refused to eat his raisin porridge. She took his doll away in anger and he burst into tears and threw up on her stomach, just before dropping on the floor, shaking. The Lord Protector said nothing but ordered the maester to take the Lord of the Eyrie away for leeching. His eyes were on Alayne's the whole time. Alayne sensed disappointment and perhaps a bit of reproach. In frustration, she turned her head to escape his scolding looks and took her leave.

Back in her bedchamber, she allows her angry tears to fall from her face. She is angry at Robert, angry at herself and-- angry at Petyr. How can he do this, to send her away to wed again after all that she has been through? It was first Tyrion, and now Harrold. She is so sick and tired of being told what to do.

She cries out and tosses Sweetrobin's doll onto the stone floor. With a loud crack, the doll's wooden head is separated from the body. 

She throws herself onto her bed, disregarding the vomit that will later stain her sheet, and starts sobbing. She is the little bird again, trapped and lost, with her fate unknown in others' hands. She is no queen, and can never be. She is just a piece to be placed or displaced according to the will of other players, who are more cunning and cleverer than her, players like Littlefinger. 

She recalls the tease of a dead boy King whom she used to fancy in her other life. She can still see his arrogant face with his wormy lips, spitting out poisonous words that once shattered her heart. "You are just a stupid little girl, aren't you?" The little bird was indeed naive and stupid, Alayne admits, loving a cruel boy she thought was perfect and brave. But she has learnt her lessons and promised herself never again would she allow herself be deceived by falseness.

Alayne hears the door opening and closing behind her. "Leave me alone," she orders, unwilling to let any of her handmaids see her like this, vulnerable and broken. Nonetheless, she feels a tender touch on her wrist, a softer one than she expects. 

"Leave me alone, can you not h--" she turns to face the intruder and in no time Petyr's mouth is on her, silencing her cry. 

Recovered from the shock, Alayne breaks away and sits up, squirming.

"Father," she greets him, trying to make herself sound calm. 

"Shh, not another word," Petyr gently pats her hands, his tone concerned and caring. "Father knows." 

All her forgotten emotions come rushing towards her. She recalls the father the little bird had, with the broad shoulders and the big beard. People said he was a good man, honest and noble. Alayne looks at the father in front of her. No one has ever regarded Littlefinger as a honest and noble man. In fact, he is completely the opposite. Nevertheless, he is the only father she has now. Although Littlefinger is a heartless man with his crafty plots, Petyr Baelish is kind enough to offer her his consolation when she needs it. Perhaps Alayne can never unmask the man and understand his intentions, but he is here now, right besides her.

Without a word, Alayne leans forward and wraps her arms around Petyr's back, with her head on his chest, and sobs. Silently, Petyr lays his hand on her head, holding and protecting her like a true father, and no mocking words come out of his usually wicked mouth. 

Somehow, deep down, Alayne finds it acceptable to weep this time.


	3. Chapter 3

Soon or later, Alayne finds herself running out of tears. Her sob has turned into a quiet quiver and she cannot help but to hold Petyr tighter. 

"Now then, how are you?" Petyr says softly, sounding almost like a whisper. 

"Better," Alayne murmurs, her voice betraying her words. 

He gently strokes her back, and lays a light kiss on her hair. Then he embraces her for a longer while, before helping her up. 

Alayne wipes the tears off her face and realises Petyr's tunic is also stained by Sweetrobin's vomit. 

"Oh I am so sorry, father," Alayne flusters as she smells the sourness in the air. Petyrs waves his hand like waving off a fly, and peels off his tunic in a smooth and practiced movement. And there she sees it, the hideous lengthy scar that goes across his chest, like an ugly scratch on a painting. 

Petyr senses her uneasiness and grins, "A thing I once did for love." He retraces his scar with his long finger until he reaches its upper end, just below his heart. "If the blow hits me a bit higher, you will be talking to a ghost." He jests, trying to cheer her up.

Alayne feels sorry for this man. She has never done anything such heroic for her loved ones but she knows the pain of losing them. She recalls the dream she had of Winterfell, of the fire burning so bright that lit up the north sky. No matter how hard she tries to hide it, the little bird misses her brothers, and even her little sister who was wild like a shadowcat and liked making fun of her ladylike courtesies. Family, Duty, Honor, these are the words of her mother's house. The little bird has done her duty as a daughter, as a lady, as a hostage. But all the same, she has abandoned her family. Willingly or unwillingly, it makes no differene. She has let them down, she knows. She wishes she could die with them and fade like ashes in the wind instead of being here, trapped in the cage of a mockingbird. 

Alayne approaches Petyr who seems surprised and freezes like a statue, and she plants kisses on his scar. A short intake of breath and he clasps her tightly. 

"Did it hurt?" Alayne asks, burying herself in his embrace, listening to the fast beating of his heart. His body is slender with pale skin, but the warmth it gives is undeniably comfortable. 

"Like nothing you could imagine." He replies, his voice unexpectedly emotional and sounding almost like a whimper. 

 

***************

There are no rumours around the Eyrie later on why the Lord Protector walks out of her daughter's room naked above his waist. Littlefinger had tried so hard to shape her into the strong and independent bastard daughter every servant now thinks she is, which is everything the little bird is not. This has worked well so far as no suspicions have been brought up. Crying hysterically in her father's arms probably does not help with her image that he is building, so Alayne believes Littlefinger must had made something up to cover the story. But she highly doubts it will fit to her hearing.

Back at the dinner table, Alayne smiled apologetically at Sweetrobin, who was still upset. She returned him his doll which she had fixed and looked brand new. He waved his little arms happily and granted her his forgiveness. He even let her kissed him on her cheek, which was wet with his saliva and snot. He then proceeded to eat up his dinner (half a bowl of lamb stew) before yawning loudly and demanding for an early rest.

The young Lord of the Eyrie soon falls asleep after a cup of warm honeyed milk. Alayne watches him as his little chest goes up and down rhythmically. Blandly, she tucks away a thread of brown hair covering his face. Robert has not let anyone cut his hair after his mother's fall. In fact, he barely let anyone touch him, except for Alayne. Back then, the death of his mother came so sudden causing him to have the most severe shake ever. It took several leechings and extra cups of dreamwine to calm him down. 

Alayne bends over and lays a kiss on Sweetrobin's thick hair, which she has washed just beforehand and now smells of oil and flowers. 

***************

That night, Alayne has a dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sweetrobin is not well today. He was moaning in discomfort when Alayne went to see him this morning. She touched his forehead and felt the heat. The maester said he was having a fever and needed rest to avoid a further escalation. He started crying as she left, screaming her name all along. Alayne is of course worried about the little Lord. But she is also glad the taking care of Sweetrobin is off her shoulders today. He has been clutching to her ever since his mother's fall. Although he is way passed the normal age of weaning from breast milk, the lacking has made him even more impossible to please. Very lately, he had squished her breasts at supper as if they could fufill his needs. Blushing, she put a halt to this. Still, she knew the servants who witnessed had turned their faces in amusements to not embarrass her. But this did not stop the Lord Protector of the Vale from grinning at her with his teasing eyes. Her heart skipped a few beats when she sensed his wanting gaze and she quickly looked away to avoid his unwelcomed attention. 

As Alayne makes her way back to her bedchamber, she is dancing with joy, thinking what a nice day it will be without hearing the absurd demands of Lord Robert. Alayne pushes open the door to her chamber and gasps in alert as she sees a man in there, inspecting her little belongings.

"Darling Alayne," Petyr turns around when he hears her entering, his hand holding an opened story book about knights and heroes, "How can the daughter of mine be into such childish readings? This leaves the father concern for her wellbeing and education." He says, with his lips curving into a jeering smile. 

"It is one of the bedtime story books I read to Sweertrobin before his sleep, Father." Alayne lies, trying to sound sweet and innocent. The book belongs to the little bird, who likes nothing more than gallant knights and heroes. Alayne had decided to keep the book to remind herself how cruel knights really are in real life that they would beat highborn ladies bloodily when their king ordered so. But she is not prepared to tell that to Littlefinger, who is talented at spotting weaknesses. 

Petyr raises his eyebrow, looking down on her as his eyes strips off her clothing, leaving her exposed and anxious. When Alayne feels like she can no longer hold on to his burning stare, Petyr laughs and settles the book aside.

"You pretty little liar," He yanks her into his arms and kisses her hair, taking her in surprise. "we better work on those lies before sending you off to Harrold Hardyng, or he will skin you to your bones." He gives her another kiss on her cheek before releasing her. 

Confused and abashed, Alayne observes her father who seems to be in a merry mood today. He is wearing a dark green tunic with the mockingbird sigil on the collar which fits him handsomely. His beard is neatly trimmed and his jaw is clean with no stubble. When he was kissing her just now she could smell the fresh fragrance of mint in his breathe. Recently, she has not seen him appearing so smart and so-- lordly. Petyr is in a joyful mood, for some odd reasons. 

"Now that Lord Robert is sick today, I think we should have some father-daughter time of our own." Petyr says, toying with a strand of her hair. "Would it not be nice for sweet Alayne to spend some time with her poor old father? Besides..." he pauses and caresses her arm, sending shiver down her spine. But she pretends she does not notice. "There are lessons and knowledge I can offer." He says in an almost alluring tone. 

Alayne moves aside, away from Petyr and his touch. She turns her back on him, mindlessly looking out the windows as if she is considering his proposal. As a matter of fact, there are butterflies in her stomach, flapping their tiny wings making her heart beats faster. She feels like she is the little bird again in King's Landing when the Knight of Flowers gifted her with a red rose instead of a white one, all nervous but flattered. No, she screams in her head, this can't be. She clenches her fists, waiting for the heat inside her body to slowly go away. Determined, she turns to face Petyr.

"Of course, father." Alayne gives him a pleasant smile, "I am so eager to learn."

Elegantly, Petyr holds out his arm and she takes it gladly. As they walk to Petyr's private solar, Alayne secretly decides not to let Littlefinger take control of her emotions and desires.

***************

"Care for some Dornish wine, Alayne?" Petyr asks as he waves a flagon of wine at her, "I had Mya carried them up to the Eyrie today."

Desperate for something to smooth away the restlessness that hangs around her throat, Alayne nods and accepts a goblet of red wine from Petyr. 

"To the health of our beloved Lord Robert," he raises his cup and toasts, his voice sarcastic, "May his wisdom grows with every breath he takes." 

That does not sound like a normal toast to Alayne, but it is not for her to question him. She takes a sip of her wine, which almost chokes her with its strong savour. She forces herself to swallow it down before giving Petyr a glance, who has his eyes closed in enjoyment. She can feel her cheeks burning with heat as she glimpses at him, like she has gotten the fever from Sweetrobin. Nonplussed, she stares back down at her goblet and starts spinning it slowly, watching as the red liquid sways in the metal cup.  

Petyr takes a final gulp of his wine and exhales in satisfaction. "I like mine red and classy." He says, licking his lips and looking at Alayne attentively. 

Alayne finds herself holding her breath as her anticipation grows. She is not sure if Petyr was commenting on his preference for wine or for... other things. She holds on to her goblet tightly, feeling her fingers going numb with the grasp. Yet, she does not want to overthink, which is what stupid young girls tend to do.

With his daughter going speechless, Petyr titters and pours himself another cup of wine. "What is it, sweetling, so quiet and shy?" He comes near Alayne, and whispers into her ear, with his mouth almost touching her ear lobe. 

Alayne can feel his rapid breathing that itches her skins and can smell the sourness of the red Dornish wine that fills her nostrils. She closes her eyes and exposes her neck, yielding herself to him. Do whatever you want with me, she says in her head, I don't care anymore. 

As if he knows what she is thinking, Petyr grins and draws back. 

"This is our very first lesson," He says mockingly and drinks from his goblet, his grey and green eyes not leaving hers. "Never let your guard down no matter how... seductive your opponent is." He chuckles and puts away his empty goblet. Enraged and ashamed, Alayne bites her lips hardly and glares at him. He beams like a winner when she finally says, "Yes, father." Her lips barely moving as she speaks.

"What a good girl," he plants a soft kiss on her forehead and takes away the goblet still full of wine from her clinging hands, "You may take your leave." 

Alayne slightly tilts her head and eyes Petyr coldly. Then she leaves the solar soundlessly as he stands there taking sips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my grammar is so wrong i want to hit myself sometimes. but i have decided not to care about it.


	5. Chapter 5

Petyr sits alone in his solar after Alayne barges out. He slowly drinks from the goblet, whose handle is still warm from Alayne's touch. A sudden sense of frustration builds up inside him. As if he is angry at himself, he throws the goblet across the room, spilling the red wine on the stone floor. 

Petyr quickly stands up and wipes his mouth, thinking what a fool he had made out of himself. Things are not going the way he intended them to. He had wasted all the effort of drugging Lord Robert into his fever. His plan on giving Alayne a proper lesson on the history of the realm today was distorted by his own carelessness. He had completely lost his control with Alayne in that brief interaction of theirs. He has always prided himself as the master of manipulation. But it was him who was manipulated just now. As she exposed her neck to him he wanted nothing more but to devour her whole. He backed away when he felt the dangerous arousal in his breeches. Still, even the sight of her in his solar had ignited the longing desire in him that he had to send her away to prevent his hands from tearing her clothes apart.

He covers his face with his hands and sighs, long and deep. He has to admit, she has an effect on him that he cannot explain. His heart goes wild whenever he sees her face, sweet and innocent with that pretty smile of hers. He has to constantly remind himself he is not young anymore. He is no match for her. Sometimes he looks into the mirror and cannot even recognise the sickly man staring back at him. A few strands of whitish hair has pierced through his scalp, highly visible among his other dark hair. He sees wrinkles on his face as well, not as obvious but enough to worry him if his days are coming to an end. Besides, he is no true lord. He may now have grand names and titles but he is still known by the smallfolks as Littlefinger, the man who lusts for power and has his chin held up too high. He hates this alias. It is a label of his insignificance among the other highborn lords.

Remembering something, Petyr lowers his hands and touches the scar on his chest through his tunic. The scar is the evidence of his foolishness when he was in his youth. He tries not to think about it but the memory keeps coming back to him. There are some nights he wakes from his sleep screaming and begging for his life. Then he would find his hands clutching tightly to his chest that would certainly leave red marks in the morrow. He face would be wet, but from sweats or from tears he cannot tell. In his dreams he often sees the tall and muscular man with his cruel and contemptuous eyes, and in his hands a swinging sword. He always wakes up when the blow is about to hit him. He despises himself for that. To him this is weakness. It surprised him when Alayne kissed his scar in her bedchamber. She must had mistaken it as a sign of courage or as the mark of undying love that only happens in little children's tales. No, it means nothing but recklessness to him. That naive little boy who sought love had died when the Stark man stole the girl of his dream away from him. He is Petyr Barlish, the Protector of the Vale, the Lord Paramount of the Trident and the liege Lord of Harrenhal. He must not let his guard down no matter how seductive his opponent is. He does not endure a weak point. 

Relaxed, Petyr picks up the goblet lying on the ground and wipes off the spilt wine. Then he walks up to his desk and continues the writing of a letter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the POV of Claire, a handmaid mentioned in Chp1.

Alayne has been avoiding Lord Petyr in the past few days. Her reserved manners when responding to his regards in the morning and her refusal to look at him have stirred up gossips among the servants. There are sayings that the Lord Protector of the Vale has been physically abusing his own daughter. But of course, no one has the deadly courage to find out the truth.

Claire first heard the tale from one of the stable boys who was trying to impress her with his information. She was so intrigued by the story that she rewarded him with a kiss on his mouth. But when he moved his hand onto her thighs she pushed him away before running away, laughing. She doesn't believe in the tales. They are just ridiculous little rumours made up by boring kitchen wenches. She is nothing like those wrinkly old women who work till their fingers have fallen off in the kitchen to support the living of some loser sons of theirs. She knows Lord Baelish is no monster. She notices he would sometimes gaze at her when no one is around and smile at her warmly. This does not sound like the doings of a monster to Claire.

Claire twirls in her own little room, imaging herself in a silk dress like those highborn ladies. Her room is not as grand as Alayne's, but she has handpicked some lovely flowers whose names she has no knowledge of and put them neatly on her sleeping mat for decoration.

Claire is a bastard. She heard her mother was a whore and had abandoned her the second she was out of her cunt. She was raised in an inn by a drunkard who has been looking down at her bodice openly ever since she has tits. But she would not let him touch her, no matter how strong and muscular he was she would find a way to keep him away. He later died in a boring fight with a farmer and left his inn to his moron son, who was way more lecherous than him. She ran away and here she is, serving as a handmaid in the Eyrie. Claire has learnt from her harsh life that everyone is treacherous. Men just want to fuck you hard and leave a bastard inside you, but she won't allow it. She is six-and-ten and still a maiden unspoiled. She takes great pride in keeping her virtue. She has no friend in the Eyrie and she doesn't need one. She knows the other handmaids call her Claire the Cold. But she doesn't care. Her mistrustful personality hasn't kept any servant boy away from lusting for her beauty and for a peek under her dress. A flick of her fingers and they all bow down to her like knights to a queen.

She plays with her fine red hair, long and straight, and brushes it with care. Lord Baelish is different, Claire looks at her hair and thinks. His eyes are always warm and his smile pure and true. He is clever with sophisticated thoughts unlike those kitchen boys who can't even read. Giggling, Claire lies down on her mat. The title Lady Claire Baelish does have a nice ring to it.

***************  
The halls of the Eyrie are cold and dark at night even with the burning torches on the walls. Claire walks quickly and enfolds herself tighter as her hand bleeds.

That stupid Alayne was being stupid again just now. When Claire attended her to her bed she knocked down a tray of sewing needles. Annoyed, Claire squatted down to pick them up but had carelessly pricked her own fingers. Alayne gasped like a little girl at the sight of blood. Claire was afraid she might faint and occupied more of her time. She hid her hand behind her back and urged Lady Alayne to bed. But it was only when she retreated from the chamber that she started to feel the pain. The wound was deep and the bleeding wouldn't stop.

Claire moves swiftly but quietly with her blue eyes skimming through her surroundings cautiously. Predators attack at night, she knows. She makes a quick turn and nearly got knocked down when she runs into a man. Panic, she shuts her eyes and holds out her hands to protect herself.

"Who is there?" The man rasps, his voice low and husky.

The voice puts Claire off her guard and she opens her eyes. It is Lord Baelish. His hair is sloven and his tunic is loosen, exposing his collarbones. In his right hand is a skin that supposedly holds wine. Remembering her silly fantasy about him the other day, Claire cannot help but blushes.

"It's me, m'lord," Claire bows her head in embarrassment to hide her red cheeks.

Lord Baelish walks towards her with his legs shaking in unbalance and takes a strand of her hair in his hand. "Of course I know you, you pretty red haired girl." He says, smiling at her and making her heart race. He smells strongly of the Dornish red and his breathing is rapid, almost like a pant.

"You are drunk, m'lord," The smell of wine reminds her of the drunkard who raised her. She does not like the connection. "Let me walk you back to your chamber."

She reaches out to grab his arms. Just as her fingers touch the fabric of his tunic he drops his skin of wine and presses her against the stone wall behind her. He inserts his fingers into her hair and kisses her lips deeply. His tongue is forcing itself into her mouth and invading its every corner. Claire is utterly taken in surprise but she finds herself responding to his kiss. She closes her eyes and wraps her arms around his neck. His mouth tastes of a mixture of mint and the sour reds from Dorne. She swears she has never tasted anything so good. Lord Baelish shifts his head and starts to kiss her neck. She twists comfortably under his touch as she feels his tongue twirling on her skin along with his gentle sucking. The sensation is too good to be true. All those stable boys are clumsy with their mouths. Their breaths often sting of cheap ale and rotten meat. If the tongue of anyone of them is half as skillful as Lord Baelish's, she would have submitted her maidenhead a long time ago.

Claire moans comfortably as Lord Baelish bites softly onto her shoulders. He gazes upon her eagerly. "You have no idea how much I want you right now," he says, his eyes hungry and desperate.

She grins in joy and replies, "Oh m'lord I have always wanted to--"

"--Sansa." He cuts her off as if he did not hear her.

The word hits her like a basin of cold water, extinguishing whatever passion she has in her. She is not stupid enough to not be able to tell when someone calls her the wrong name. 

"What did you just say?" Claire barks, forgetting this is not the appropriate way to talk to a lord. 

Lord Baelish simpers and put his hands on her waist. She does not flinch but stares right at him, demanding for an answer. He blinks blankly at her then produces a weak smile. "My beautiful Tully girl," he mumbles as if talking to himself and Claire realises how drunk he actually is, "I have always wanted you since I first saw you in King's Landing. You in your silk dress and --"

Claire slaps him hard on his face.

Lord Baelish falls back onto the floor and faints.

"I have never worn a silk dress and I don't want one." Claire eyes him coldly and restrains herself from spitting on him, thinking it may be a step too far. Remembering the wound on her fingers, she examines it and is delighted to see it has faded. She steps across Lord Baelish and wipes the dried blood on his tunic.

***************

When morrow comes, a servant finds Lord Baelish lying unconsciously on the ground. He notices the blood stain on his tunic but says nothing. As he helps him up he wakes and gets confused about where he is and why is there a torturing pain on his swollen left cheek. The servant then proceeds to walk him back to his bedchamber to rest. As the servant leaves the room he sniggers, thinking what a great story it will be to tell the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed I have this issue of repeating certain words in my writing. Sorry about that. I am currently working on Chp12 (yeah you heard me right). I do not post my works immediately after they are done because I am not completely confident about myself and would need days or weeks to examine them before I post them up. Just clarifying.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this on the 3rd of june. was really confident about it but not quite now. anyway here goes nothing.

It is snowing in the Vale. The snow is heavy but early, considering the time of the year. As Alayne wakes she sees that the Eyrie is covered in white. She finds herself indifferent. Odd, she thinks. The little bird had always been fond of snow. She would dance in her father's castle, beaming as her siblings threw snowballs at each other. Perhaps the little bird is finally gone now, after all the troubles she had caused.

"You need to eat your breakfast to stay strong and handsome, Sweetrobin," Alayne says softly as Robert puts down his spoon in protest.

"But I want to go out and play!" Robert beseeches, sniffing.

Alayne has little patience for this demanding boy today. He had already flung three spoons onto the ground in frustration when his wish to leave the table was denied. Alayne puts up a motherly smile. "My Sweetrobin needs to eat his breakfast to withstand the cold outside." she pushes the bowl of porridge towards him again.

"Breakfast can fly!" The little lord screams and flips the bowl onto the floor. The wooden bowl spins on the stone but soon dies as it lays in the puddle of porridge.

Outraged, Alayne tightens her fists. She wants to spank him hard until he cries and his backside red and sore. The Lord of the Eyrie can go bother someone else with his problems today. Today, Alayne doesn't want to care.

Alayne sighs and smoothes Robert fine dark hair. "You can play till just before your lesson time. But you have to promise you will eat half a bowl of porridge afterwards."

Robert hesitates at her sudden change of attitude and looks at his spilt breakfast on the floor. Then he looks back up at Alayne and tests, "Just half a bowl?" "Just half a bowl," Alayne reassures him.

The little lord grins in joy. Alayne kisses his forehead and thinks she cannot possibly stoop lower.

***************

With snowflake in her chestnut hair, Alayne walks back to her bedchamber. She is shivering with cold and her gown is wet from the melted snow. She stares straight ahead at the empty long hall as an unbearable guilt consumes her.

Robert had the worst fit just now, even worse than the one the death of his mother had caused. With an empty stomach and his resistance to put up more fur coats, the sickly boy trotted into the yard laughing .He was attempting to build something with the snow but it was not long before his hands started to shudder. When his nose bled, he smiled weakly and whispered to Alayne, "Your snowcastle, Alayne." Alayne stood in the snow and watched as he was being carried away by the maester who came rushing in.

 _There is no other way;_ Alayne comforts herself as she walks faster, her footsteps echoing. The maester had warned her she must not take Robert out into the snow. His blood is thin and he may die in an exposure to the coldness. Alayne knew the consequences, but there was no other way. She is wedding Harrold in a year. The Lord of the Eyrie has to die, soon or later.

Still, the expression the maester gave her when he took Robert away is imprinted in her mind. She did not know a human being could show so much disgust and hatred in one look. Robert's trusting smile is haunting as well. The little boy went all the way to build a snowcastle to impress her.

The memory of another snowcastle stirs up her anger towards another man. Back then she thought he was her protector with his gentleness and helpfulness. But he has given her no guidance not protection lately but humiliation. When she closes her eyes she can vividly see his sly smile that night in his solar. He mocked her when she gave herself to him. He and Joffrey are the same, she has decided, they all want nothing from her but to toy with her and see her suffer. She has to take care of herself now, with or without him.

Alayne enters her bedchamber and closes the door. Her hands are almost blue from the cold. She strips herself off her clothing until she is as naked as her name day. She had ordered her handmaids to bring a tub of hot water into her room for bathing and is delighted to see the water is prepared and steaming. She jumps into tub and the water splashes out. The soft sway has a healing effect that washes away her guilt and anger. She shuts her eyes as she lies back on one side of the tub and ignores the tingly feeling on her skin.

"That was illy done." A serious voice says behind her.

Alarmed, Alayne stands up from the water and faces the speaker with her fists tightened, ready to defend herself.

"You look lovely without your clothes on, dear," Petyr Barlish teases, his mouth smiling when his cold eyes are fixed on hers.

Realising her nudity, Alayne sits back in the tub and holds her legs. She glares up at Petyr, disliking the way he is looking down at her.

"What were you talking about?" She snapped, her voice louder and ruder than she expects.

Petyr frowns slightly and his mouth twitches in disapproval of her lack of manner. But then his eyebrows relax and he says, his tone soft as if smoothing a crying child, "Your doings with Robert, sweetling. Everyone in the Eyrie now knows of your grand plan on killing off Lord Robert."

"Everyone?" Alayne looks at him in shock as her body tenses. She did not think it was that obvious.

Petyr waves his hand and replies with a hint of annoyance, "Not everyone. Just the maester who came banging on my door and sought for my protection for Lord Robert, so I promised him I would execute the person held responsible," He pauses and gazes at Alayne, who seems horrified. His heart sings songs when she looks at him like that, so dependent and so fragile. He scolds himself for having such thoughts and proceeds, "So now the maester is chained up in the sky cell for his misjudged treatments on Lord Robert that caused his fits to worsen. When morrow comes he will leave the Eyrie through the Moon Door." Petyr finishes and sees as Alayne sighs in relief. She then hides her face in her hands and starts whimpering. The steaming water ripples gently as she trembles.

Petyr, unwilling to see her tears, turns his head in discomfort and stares down at the floor.

"I-- I was so scared," she says finally, when her whimper is coming to a stop. "I thought you might-- you might--"

Petyr turns and looks back at her, with a painful sorrow in his eyes. "You thought I might hurt you?" He murmurs, his voice so soft as if he is talking to himself. "I would never hurt you, Sansa."

The name rolls off his tongue, sounding strange haven't been said for such a long time. The forbidden word seems to have given Aalyne some courage. She sweeps off her tears and gazes at Petyr sternly. "Father," she says with determination, easing the anxiety in Petyr's heart as it has been a while since she last greeted him. "I need to learn. I need to know the ways to--" She looks into his eyes, her thoughts unreadable, "--to get what you want."

Petyr walks up to the tub and squats down until they can look at each other at eye level. He smiles and lifts up her jaw and kisses her on her mouth. A splash of water and she puts her arms around his neck, returning his kiss with equal passion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I wrote this quite a while ago and when I reread it I wasn't quite satisfied. Anyway, here you go.

Robert survived, Alayne is relieved to hear. Petyr was holding her hands when he told her the news. He gave her a light kiss on her wrist and consoled her, "The timing will come, sweetling." She now understands how reckless and naive her method was. If the maester accused her of murdering a lord in the public even Petyr couldn't save her. She would be sent back to King's Landing for King Tommen's justice. This would expose her identity and would have caused her head. The maester, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. Petyr had his tongue removed to cease his false words. Petyr's hands were on Alayne's shoulders when Mord opened the Moon Door for the good maester. The Lord Protector muttered some words into her ears which she could not remember, but she could not forget the terrified look on the maester's face when they bade him farewell.

Alayne rolls a wooden ball to Robert, who seems more sickly than ever after his fit in the cold. The servants have wrapped him in the fur of a snow bear, making him look like a chubby snow ball even the weather has gone back to being nice and warm.

"I don't want to play," Robert wiggles uncomfortably under his oversized fur coat and complaines, as he eyes the ball with disinterest, "I want to stay in bed."

Alayne rolls her eyes. She does not want to stay with Robert as well. If she could choose she would prefer the company of Petyr. But the Lord Protector has descended to the Gate of Moon to meet some lordlings of the Vale to secure his title. The thought of Petyr brings a warm smile to Alayne's face. Their kiss in her bedchamber has convinced her the protection he provides is genuine. He truly wants to protect her and not for any reward of glory or richness. But at the same time Alayne feels like she wants more. That day after their reconciliation they only kissed. She expected more intimacy but Petyr soon left her to her bathing. She would not deny the kiss was long and sweet but still, she yearned for more. She sometimes feels shameful for having such thoughts. But she cannot help but to wonder what would happen if Petyr indeed do... more? What come after the kissing? Petyr has had a few private lessons with her on how to hide her emotions and there were moments when his hand brushed her skin. Some ridiculous ideas have popped out in her head but they seem very improper, too improper for the thinking of a lady. Alayne flushes helplessly at her own thoughts and commands herself to discard them.

Alayne pushes Robert's hair backward to see his eyes, bright and blue, big as well, in contrast with his skinny face. He could be quite charming when he is behaving. It would be a shame to kill Robert the boy one day but the Lord of the Eyrie must die, Petyr has taught her that. But for now it is time to play the dutiful bastard daughter again. "Shall I read to you instead, Sweetrobin?" Alayne offers.

"The story of Boris the Brave! Would you read that to me?" Robert's little face glows in anticipation. "If it pleases my lord." Alayne kisses his forehead, imagining she is kissing another man with a beard on his chin and a mockingbird on his collar.

***************

After the reading Robert fell asleep on her laps. Alayne ordered the servants to carry the lord back to his chamber to take rest. She is reading a book Petyr gave her in her chamber when she hears a knock on her door.

"Come in," Alayne answers graciously but with firmness in her voice, the way Petyr had taught her to speak.

A servant girl pushes the door open and walks in, with a young man behind her.

"M'lady, this is Maester Canolf, the new maester," the servant girl proclaims while she smiles sweetly at the man who smiles back. Alayne notes that the servant girl's cheeks are slightly red.

Petyr had informed her of the new maester before his departure. He asked her to inspect the new maester upon his arrival, to see if he is suggestible and if his tongue can be bought. But she was not expecting him to arrive so late at night, and be so... young and comely.

"Leave us," Alayne commands. The servant girl obeys and closes the door, before having one last glance at the young maester.

"Maester Canolf, is it?" Alayne looks at the maester and suspects: he seems too young to be a maester. 

The maester smiles and walks up to Alayne, his movement smooth and elegant. He kneels down and kisses the back of her hand. 

"That--That was inappropriate for a man of your common birth, maester." Alayne blushes and retrieves. She is stunned by his action and also his good look. Maester Canolf is even more handsome up close. His hair is blonde and curly, glimmering like gold under the reflection of the flickering candle light. He is very young, probably not older than seventeen. He is tall and well built with firm muscles in his forearms and has a nice scent of olive and lemon on his body. Alayne notices his eyes are dark blue, the colour of the ocean, and they are glinting with excitement as he gazes her eagerly.

"My lady," he lays another kiss on her hand and says, his voice surprisingly boyish, "I am not of common birth and am no true maester either. I am Harrold of the house Hardyng." 

Alayne looks at him, shocked but confused. What is her betrothed doing here in the Eyrie disguising as a maester?

"Ser," She asks, "What is your business here? My Lord father is away and would you like to speak with him you--" 

"I have no business here with Lord Baelish, my lady." Harrold blinks at her with mischief as he gently stokes her palm, "I am here to see if his daughter is as beautiful as the others have said, which I am glad to find out 'beautiful' is an understatement." 

Alayne is flattered by his words but she quickly steadies herself. Petyr once told her men would say anything to get what they want. Words have no meaning, only deeds do. 

"Ser, why are you doing here exactly?" Alayne confronts him and asks, sterner this time. 

The young man seems confused. "Why, my lady, I just want to get to know you more before we wed." He gives her a charming but childish grin. 

"Ser, if my Lord father finds out about you I am afraid he may have you arrested for counterfeiting a maester." 

"So she is beautiful and kind, I see now." Harrold praises her again with a warm smile on his face. Do compliments all come so cheap and easy to men? Alayne reflects and blinks at her betrothed. "Worry me not, my lady. I have been interested in the art of healing since I was a boy. I should be able to fool Lord Baelish." He gives her a reassuring smile. 

So he is handsome and clever, I see now, Alayne thinks and immediately feels guilty for approving his doing, even to the slighteset extent. She cannot bare Petyr's disappointment any more, not after the failure of her dogmatic plan with Robert. Doing anything behind his back seems almost immoral nowadays. And she knows he would find out about Harrold soon enough. Harrold's mind seems as simple as the little bird's, and reckless as well, imagining he can actually deceive Littlefinger, the brilliant brain behind every clever scheme that has managed to keep them both alive to this day. But if Petyr is to know about Harrold, it would be from Alayne first, and no one else. 

"Where will you be staying, Harrold?" She tilts her head and cups his chin and tries not to giggle as his face turn red. Petyr said men like being flirted to, and very true indeed. She will, just for now, play her part with Harrold as his betrothed who is all enchanted by his bravery and awed by his boldness. The game sounds like fun. 

"I-- I am---" he stutters on his words, the confidence he had a moment ago leaving him, "I am staying in the old maester's room in the Eyrie, of course, my lady. And please, call me Harry." 

Alayne leans forward and gives him a light kiss on his jaw and sneers when she hears a gasp. 

"Then I shall see you in the morning, ser Harry." She smiles sweetly, signaling him to leave. 

When finally alone Alayne climbs up to her bed and lies down, smiling proudly as she looks at the ceiling. Harrold is completely bewitched by her. Father would be pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written an alternative ending for this chapter but I have decided I didn't like it so I changed it to the one you just read. If you would like to read it I have posted it up as well. The AE begins and continues after the *s.


	9. Chapter 8 AE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A completely different approach, I have to say, and I was a bit hasty.  
> And it's bugging me that this is called chp 9 by AO3 when it is just an abandoned idea for chp 8. ughhh.

After the reading Robert fell asleep on her laps. Alayne ordered the servants to carry the lord back to his chamber to take rest. She is reading a book Petyr gave her in her room when she hears a knock on her door.

"Come in," Alayne answers graciously but with firmness in her voice, the way Petyr had taught her to speak.

A girl pushes the door open and walks in, with a young man behind her.

"M'lady, this is Maester Canolf, the new maester," the girl proclaims while she smiles sweetly at the man who smiles back. Alayne believes the girl is one of the new servants Petyr had recently hired. 

Petyr had informed her of the new maester before he left the Eyrie. He asked her to inspect the new maester upon his arrival, to see if he is suggestible and if his tongue can be bought. But she was not expecting him to arrive so late at night, and be so... young and comely.

"Leave us," Alayne commands. The girl obeys and closes the door, before having one last glance at the young maester.

Maester Canolf walks towards Alayne, his movement smooth and elegant. He kneels down before her and kisses the back of her hand. Alayne retrieves quickly in horror.

"What are you doing, Maester Canolf?" Alayne stares at him and tries to be stern, but her trembling voice is failing her.

Maester Canolf grins and stands up. He looks like he just had his seventeenth name day and is rather tall for his age. "Alayne," he says, his voice low and calm. "Please." He lifts his arm and cups her chin and she steps back in alert, glaring.

"That was inappropriate for a man of your common birth, maester." Alayne speaks with her chin held up, sounding authoritative, "And you must refer to me as 'Lady Alayne'."

Maester Canolf smirks and walks closer to Alayne, who steps further back as he does. His twists his lips into a cruel smile, his cold eyes looking at Alayne like a predator lurking at its prey. He looks less comely now. "My lady loves to dance." He says with contempt. Alayne can feel the fear growing inside her. The maester acts awfully like the dead boy king, who is brutal and torturous. She remembers all the things the king had done to her and feels as her legs weaken. She leans against the wall for support.

"If I scream you will die," Alayne drives out all her remaining courage and warns, "Lord Barlish is my father and he will have you rotting in the sky cell if it pleases me."

Alayne exhales in relief when Maester Canolf retreats. But when he dashes forward and presses himself against her she realises he was playing with her.

"Lord Baelish is far far away, sweet heart." He whispers as he puts his hands on Alayne's waist. "I will be long gone before he can save your pretty backside."

Alayne can feel something hard pressing against her stomach and can hear him panting in excitement. She glares straight into his eyes and mutters, but every word clear and firm, "I. Will. Scream."

Maester Canolf frowns in consideration. He then gave Alayne a boyish smile, as if nothing had happened. He pulls back a step and fixes his clothing, his eyes never leaving her. But then, when Alayne thinks it is over, he holds her jaw tightly and pulls her to him. Before Alayne can react he is kissing her, his tongue twirling in her mouth. She tries to struggle free but he is too strong, holding her still. She shuts her eyes and prays this will be over soon.

Seeming forever, he breaks off and wipes his mouth as he chuckles at Alayne. Alayne holds her throat and gasps for air. She can still taste the foulness of his tongue in her mouth. Maester Canolf walks to the door and puts his hand on the door knob. Then he turns around and faces Alayne as if he has forgotten something.

"I can be your worst nightmare or your gallant knight, my lady," He smiles but his tone threatening, "depending on your willingness to obey."

The door opens and closes. Alayne collapses onto the floor and embraces herself, her lips bleeding.

***************

A few days later the real maester showed up. He is an old man with his teeth almost gone. Alayne teases herself for only realising now that Canolf is too young to be a maester. 

Today Petyr is returning from the Gate of the Moon. Alayne heard his negotiation with the lordlings have been a huge success. She is so eager to see him, to finally see a friendly face after her accident with Canolf.

She runs to Petyr's solar and enters without knocking. She is too excited for having him back to her side. But when she opens the door she sees that Petyr is in the middle of a conversation with two people.

Blushing, Alayne apologies, "Father I am so sorry, I did not know we have guests."

"Don't be, sweetling. Come," Petyr waves her forward and gives her a fatherly kiss on her forehead. "May I present to you your betrothed, ser Harrold of the house Hardyng and his... lady friend." 

Alayne smiles politely at the guests but her smile freezes when she recognises their familiar faces. 

"Lady Alayne." The young girl who Alayne thought was a servant grins at her mischievously, while Canolf licks his lips and stares at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it was supposed to be quite a shock to the readers, to reveal his identity in the end. Oh well.  
> Wait! Tell me which ending you actually like more. It's not like it will change anything to be frank cos I am on chp 13 (which is not going well, sadly) so what would happen will still happen. Anyway, I would love to know what you think.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the upcoming spelling mistkes. I was being really hasty.

Alayne watches from a distance as Harrold plays with Robert in the yard. The young man and the boy seem to be getting along. Harrold would pretend to be defeated and falls onto the soft grass as Robert laughes and tackles him down. The servants who walk past smile at the sight: no one as ever seen Robert being so lively. He has been sick and small since his birth and is never interested in children's play. Harrold seems to have brought back the playfulness and childishness in him. Alayne cannot help but to smile as well. Lord Jon died when Robert was still a babe. Growing up without a father must be miserable for him. It is good for the young lord to have a fatherly figure. Still, Alayne wonders does Harrold know he could only truly become Harry the Heir if Robert die. Her betrothal to him would be meaningless if Robert lives on. 

 

"Is that a maester playing with our Seeetrobin?" Alayne jumps when she hears Petyr's voice. Petyr is behind her, squinting at the action in the yard. 

 

"Father!" Alayne squeaks, "You frightened me!"

 

"Did I?" He laughs in amusement, "Forgive your father, sweetling, he did not mean to." He lays a trail of kisses on her neck. She squirms and pushes him away, her face red. She does not want anyone to see him kissing her on places that a father is not supposed to kiss on. She puts her hands on his chest as a sign of resistance and whispers, "Fathers don't do that. " Petyr chuckles and clips a strand of her brown hair in his fingers, "What now can a father not express his affection for his own daughter?" He lifts her hand and kisses it, a more appropriate kiss. He then turns and looks back at Harrold and Robert.

 

"Is that the new maester?" Petyr demands with Littlefinger's cold and authoritative voice. 

 

"Yes father I--" 

 

"Lord Baelish!" Harrold waves at Petyr when he spots him. Robert flinches at the name and hides behind Harrold's long legs, watching the Lord Protector uneasily. No wonder, Robert has a healthy fear for his stepfather.

 

Petyr walks to Harrold, his dark cloak wavering as he takes his steps. Alayne quickly follows him behind.

 

"M' Lord," Harrold bows courteously, "Maester Canolf, at your service." His way of speaking has changed, to a more southern accent reminding Alayne of the old maester who walked through the Moon Door. She is impressed by his mimicry. Robert is shielding himself from Petyr. He is looking like the timid and sickly child again. 

 

Petyr nods at Harrold's regards with stiffness. He does not respond but stares at him, his grey and green eyes cold and judging. Harrold notices the awkwardness in Petyr's silence. His blue eyes glance at Alayne for a brief moment and they seem to be seeking for help. 

 

Finally, Petyr gives him a light smile and asks casually, "Tell me good maester, how old are you and where did you forge your chain?"

 

"Nineteen, m'lord. I was born in Oldtown and learnt my skills from Maester Horton, m'lord." Harrold immeditaely answers, without any hesitation and his tone natural and honest. She believes he must had made up his own background with convincing little details. She glimpses at her father whose expression is cold and his thoughts inscrutable. Alaynr can see Harrold is starting to feel uneasy under the pressure. The apple in his throat moves up and down as he swallows nervously. 

 

At last, Petyr smiles and gives an encouraging light pat on his shoulder, "Send my regards to Maester Horton, will you? Good day, Maester Canolf and please," He pauses and looks down at Robert with a sly grin on his face. The boy clutches tighter to Harrold and blinks fearfully under his gaze, "take good care of our Lord Robert." He then turns to Alayne with a fatherly smile, "I shall await you in my solar, sweetling." Not waiting for her reply, Peryr bows slightly at Harrold and leaves. 

 

Harrold beams in relief and rubs Robert's hair, who cannot look happier to see his stepfather gone. Alayne gives Harrold a knowing smile, before running off to catch up with her lord father. 

 

In his solar Petyr tells Alayne to sit down as he pours wine. Alayne looks around and sees no chair, so she sits on a pile of cushion lying on fhe floor. She hears a soft clang from Petyr's side. A suspicious thought crosses her mind but she quickly casts it away.

 

Petyr snickers when he sees his daughter twisting uncomfortably on the floor, trying to maintain a ladylike sitting position. He joins her on the floor and stuffs a goblet of golden liquid into her hands, "Arbor Gold, for my gorgeous Alayne," He raises his cup and says, his playful eyes scanning her. She knows it is stupid to feel shy but she simply cannot bare his burning gaze. Knowing he is watching her makes her uncomfortable almost. She avoids his looks and sips her wine quietly. 

 

Arbor Gold does not seem as strong as the Dornish sour red with its sweet tastes of summer but this is soon proven untrue. Alayne feels dizzy after a few sips as if her head is swimming or even floating. The wine does help her to ease up the tension though. She finds Petyr lot more approchable and particularly handsome under the dim and amber candle light. An urgent desire rises up in Alayne: She wants intimacy, now and here, with Petyr. The wine seems to have boosted her courage to take actions as she puts her half full goblet onto the floor. The cup nearly slips out of her hand but she catches it just before it spills. She scolds herself for her clumsiness as she crawls up to Petyr, grinning at him like a needy child. 

 

"Father," Alayne lets herself fall onto Petyr's laps, her voices sounding strange to her. She looks up at Petyr and asks, "Would you kiss me?"

 

Alayne knows Petyr is smirking but she does not care. Her shame and embarrassment are all gone. It does sound stupid to feel shy just now. She should be flattered that he actually pays attention to her. He looks so fine with his dark hair. The way they are dangling from his forehead when he is looking down at her is so tempting. She reaches out to touch his hair but Petyr flinches and grips her hand.  

 

"A kiss you said?" He teases. He sets his goblet of Arbor Gold aside. Alayne glimpses at the cup and notices it is still full, untouched. She then realises the clang she heard was him putting something in her wine, making her giddy. He sees her glancing and he smiles slyly, "You are not mad at me are you?" 

 

Alayne cannot possibly be angry now. The wine has made her feet light and has cleared away the disturbing thoughts in her head. She likes the looseness. She giggles and bargains, "I won't be if you kiss me." 

 

He smiles and kisses her hand. The kiss is light. His lips barely touched her skin. His mocking smile is growing wide, "A fatherly kiss. How about that?" 

 

"No!" Alayne laughs, "This." She sists up and wants to kiss him on the mouth. 

 

Petyr puts his hand on her shoulders and pushes her gently back onto his laps, keeping their distance. His smile is even wider now.

 

"Daughters don't do that." He says ironically. 

 

Hearing her own words coming back to her in a mocking way usually makes her feel angry and offended. But in the effect of the wine she finds his cunning cleverness an attraction. She titters and holds his hand, "Oh please," she finds herself begging but she cannot care less for her dignity or honor. She really just wants to kiss him, hard, "Petyr." She smiles when she sees the grin on his face and knows she had said the right thing.

 

"That's more like it." Petyr leans forward and kisses her on the mouth. 

 

His kiss is fulfilling her. She realises how much she has missed him in the past few days when he was away. She puts her hands in his hair and closes her eyes. But just when she is still savoring the moment he breaks off and sits her up, removing her from his laps. Alayne, dissatisfied and puzzled, turns and look at him.

 

"Now, do you have something to say, sweetling?" He says softly, but with a hint of warning. His tone suggests he just went from Petyr Baelish, kind and gentle, to Littlefinger, controlling and demanding. 

 

"About what?" Alayne stares blankly at him. Her senses are returning as she feels her head cleared. She needs to be careful with her answers. 

 

"Oh I don't know. Why don't you tell me?" Petyr smiles with his mouth but not with his eyes, which are serious and firm. 

 

This is a test. Petyr is expecting something of her. But somehow Alayne has a feeling he already knew the answer to his own question. He just wants to test how honest she is with him. Sneaky.

 

"Maester Canolf." she says confidently. Petyr licks his lips and stares at her. A sense of panic is gradually forming. She cannot tell if she had past his test for the look he is giving her is mysterious and non-suggestive. The air seems to have frozen. None of them says anything and the only sound she can hear comes from the snarling wind blowing through the gaps of the stone walls of the Eyrie. The silence between them seems to be growing like a roaring beast determined to devour her. But finally, he pulls her close and strokes her lips.

 

"Correct." He declares and leans forward to kiss her. But she closes her mouth and simpers at him, "How did you find out?" 

 

He gives her a shifty smile and a simple answer, "Falcon." 

 

Alayne is awed by his observation but she is not given any thinking time when he tilts her head up and kisses her on her mouth. The kiss is eager and passionate. His tongue is in her and the sensation is so good she cannot think straight. He puts his arms around her back and head to embrace her. His hand is pressing her against him possessively and his force so strong it is hurting her. Alayne bursts out a moan of pain when his nails dig deeply into her scalp. 

 

Petyr immediately backs off and stands up. He turns his back on her while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I did not mean to hurt you," he mutters, reluctant to face her. The words are so sincere and humble Alayne would not have believed they came from his mouth. 

 

Alayne is feeling sorry for him now. She wants to stand up but is struggling to under the remaining effect of the drug. But she manages. She tries to stand still but the world around her is spinning. Her head starts aching so bad she closes her eyes to block away her distorted vision. 

 

"I am really sorry." She hears him say, his voice has a twinge of guilt that does sound odd coming from him. Alayne smiles and opens her eyes. Petyr is watching her with concern and his eyes are almost tender. 

 

"No, don't be." Alayne says softly and walks to him.

 

To her horror he steps back from her, his movement quick and defensive. He seems astonished by what he just did as well. His eyes are wide opened as if he did not know what had happened. She looks at him, wounded. She does not understand. He was so desperate for her a while ago and he now acts like he wants nothing to do with her. But then an epiphany comes to her like a smack on the back of her head. The idea is growing so strong it is engulfing her with jealousy and hatred.

 

"You want her, not me." She says coldly. It is a statement, not a question. Still, she needs to know.

 

Petyr blinks at her. His usually calm face is not so calm now. Without his easiness and casualness Petyr Baelish looks like another man. It sounds obvious where his alias come from: Littlefinger as in how little and unimportant he really is under his lordly manner. Afterall, he is born to a small house and should really stay small. She realises she is just a pawn in his stratagem. He needs her to help him reach the top. His affection for her is probably just her own imagination. Littlefinger is a despicable man. Did she not already know that? He would do everything to win him power. She cannot believe she is falling for him, again. Had he not hurt you enough last time? Alayne feels weak and tired. She is starting to disdain the man in front of her, him with his clever schemes that plan on killing off an innocent little boy. Drugging her into getting all loosened up and bold in both words and deeds is his way of making fun of her. It is all so clear now. She looks at Petyr whose silence is confirming her worst nightmare. He did not even ask who was she referring to in her accusation. He did not even bother pretending.

 

Angry tears slowly drip from her eyes, her Tully blue eyes, he once commented. She is an inferior substitute and he does not and will not love her, not truly. She looks at her protector and sneers, at herself or at him she does not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not going to lie. This fic seems to be going nowhere as I haven't touched it for a really long while now. I still have a few chapters in stock (up till chp 12) but when they run out I am afraid I may not produce anymore else.


	11. Chapter 10

The wind is blowing and seems to be singing a song of sorrow. The yellow leaves fall from the trees and dance in the air as the wind leads. Winter is coming. The words echo in Alayne's mind. Alayne does not understand these words but literally. She believes the northmen must have meant other things as well when they made them their house words. 

"M'lady, it's almost supper now. Would you like to come inside?" A handmaid asks as her long hair flutters. She is shaking under the harshness of the wind. Her hands are getting pale.

"I will be fine here," Alayne smiles considerately and holds on to the fences of the balcony, "you may go if you wisht." 

The handmaid cannot seem happier. She gives her her thanks and takes her leave. 

Alayne looks back into the yard from the balcony she is standing on. The servants have become lax since Lord Baelish is away again. Alayne can see Harrold is chatting with a couple of servants down there. His humor and charming look have won him a couple of new friends, and the eyes of the women in the Eyrie. Some of the kitchen wenches are flirting with him as they fiddle their bodies coquettishly. The young falcon seems uneasy trying to maintain a decent manner and a normal conversation with the other servants. Alayne can see, although far off, he is blushing with embarrassment. Immediately, Alayne despises this knight for his clumsiness and wonders how he could have fathered two bastards. He is timid when dealing with willful women who make their intentions with him quite clear. Perhaps he likes girls that are shy and dependent. Alayne teases herself for not meeting her betrothed's preference. 

The young maester goes into the warm hall of the Eyrie with his companions after they burst out a roaring laughter to his joke. The yard is filled with quietness again with nothing but the constant blowing of the cold wind. 

Alayne walks back into her bedchamber and is grateful for the warmth the castle is providing. She sits down on her bed and knits. It has been a while since she last sewed. Lord Baelish once said sewing is for highborn ladies and does not match with the doings of a bastard girl. Alayne smiles lightly at the recollection and continues her knitting.

Harrold walks in after a knock with a sweet smile on his handsome face. Alayne returns his smile and stands up to greet him. Harrold quickly walks to her and kneels to kiss the back of her hand. She is suddenly annoyed with his formality but pretends to be flattered by it and allows herself to giggle like a little girl. Hearing her own foolish laughter almost makes her want to choke herself. But Harrold grins in the perception that that he has pleased her. 

"My lady," he starts off, with a little nervousness in his voice, "I saw you, in the yard. I meant balcony. No-- I meant I saw you on the balcony when I was in the yard." He bites his lips as if angry at his stammer, which makes him look boyish and immature. Alayne conceals her contempt and gives him an encouraging look. She wants to hear what he has to say. "You seemed lonely and sad, " he looks into her eyes as if they give him some reassurance and the courage to go on. His eyes are blue, like hers, but they are so sincere and true, unlike hers. "Is there anything I could do to make my lady feel better?" 

Alayne is disappointed. She thought he was going to say something extraordinary, but it turned out to be his usual formality. She smiles sadly at him and shakes her head slightly. "No, good ser. There is--" An absurd idea comes up in her head. It is too absurd, frankly. She looks attentively at Harrold, tall and handsome, and asks herself, why not? 

"Actually, there is one thing you could do to please me." She smiles slyly and approaches him. He seems stunned and is still like one of Sweetrobin's wooden soldiers, but there is a hint of anticipation in his eyes. Alayne stands with the tip of her toes and holds his jaw with both of her hands. She gives him an affectionate gaze then kisses him on his lips. She can feel his body tensed and knows he is holding his breath. Slowly, he embraces her with his long arms, but his movement rigid and reserved. Alayne closes her eyes and lets herself be filled with his scent of olive and lemon. His mouth is soft and non-invasive, tender even. His chin is clean shaved and comfortable to touch, indeed the face of a boy. The little bird would like that, Alayne thinks, kissing a gallant knight who is kind and gentle, just like those in a fairy tale. When her tongue parts his lips his hands on her waists tense up and she can feel the arousal in his breeches through her clothing. Smiling, Alayne gently pushes him away.

Alayne moves away and pours herself a goblet of red wine, Dornish and sour. She has grown fond of its strong savour recently. She drinks it while gazing at Harrold, who looks frustrated and hurt. 

"Why?" Harrold asks, panting. His voice has become low and husky, more suitable for a man of his age and size. Alayne prefers his voice like this. 

"Not yet," she smiles and says. She puts down her goblet and walks to him. She holds his large hand in hers and strokes his palm, "My good Harry would not want to spoil the fun of our wedding night would he?" 

Alayne is so pleased with herself when Harrold strains his eyes in amaze. She looks down and sees his breeches are close to bursting with his member pushing hard against the fabric. Red faced, Harrold realises his inappropriateness and quickly asks for her permission for his leave. His voice has returned to its childishness again. Alayne gladly grants her permission and restrains herself from laughing as Harrold forgets about all his courtesies and runs out through the door.

Winter comes when summer goes, Alayne reminds herself as she sits down and picks up her needlework again, and winter is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been so long since i last posted a chapter. honestly i cannot quite remember what i have written. but hey, i am back again with my fingers on the keyboard ready to produce a new chapter.


	12. Chapter 11

Petyr ascends to the Eyrie after spending a month with the lordlings in the Gate of the Moon. It has been a tedious month even for him who can find fascination in the least fascinating of things. The lordlings had made themselves quite clear they would not validate his title as the Lord Protector and would rebell against him if he proclaim himself as one. The accusations some of the lords made were amusing but he made his best attempt to look focused and serious as he sat there listening to the mumble their mouths made. After years in King's Landing as a member of the small council he can distinguish empty talks. It was almost entertaining to see when the, lets say, less so honorable lords were also raising their voices against him. He knows a craven when he sees one and he knows how to break them. Still, he was required to maintain a peaceful negotiation with the raging lords and his face would be soar and stiff after a day of faked smiles. 

In some especially dull conversations with the lordlings he found his mind drifting off the subject to something else. The thought of her troubles him. He blames himself for failing to handle the situation with her. He has slipped before. For that he is not proud, oh no, so not proud. He earlier thought it was a rare form of compassion he was feeling for this poor girl who has lost her everything (thanks to him, but he avoids thinking this way), the way you pity a limping little puppy. But then he cleared his head and admitted it was desire. Fine, he can handle a little bit of desire can't he? But he guesses his desire is going beyond control when he is practically compressing himself to not spill sweet words into her ears that promise everything and yet archive nothing. There were times when he had actually convinced himself his unwanted feelings for the girl was purely the result of her resemblance to her mother. But when she confronted him that night he failed to produce a response. He is not so certain now. A small part of him, the naive little boy who still believes in love stories who he thought was long gone already, was screaming for denial. But he killed the struggle and chose to maintain his silence. It would be best for him to cut away any emotional attachment. He should have learnt his lesson when he received the mark of shame on his chest. Did he not already know what a foolish thing emotion is? He disdains anything that could be the fall of him.

Petyr shakes his troublesome thoughts away. He needs a solution, an immediate one. He is playing fire with this girl and he is not sure who will be the first to get burnt. 

The Lord of Harrenhal walks through the gate of the Eyrie as the servants and soldiers greet him. He remains hard-faced as he walks past, not giving anyone of them a glance. He needs to casts his foolish self away and plays his role as the stern lord. After all, fear and gold breed loyalties. The lions are quite the master in this art.

Swiftly, he enters the great hall, where dinner will soon served. His eyes instantly find the girl with the chestnut hair, sitting gracefully next to Lord Robert with a doll in her hand trying to please the impossible young lord. Her head turns to the sound of his footsteps but her gaze does not linger as she quickly returns to her duty. He is staring at her with his eyes narrowed before he comes to his realisation. He forbids himself and walks past the servants' table, fastening his pace to the raised dais at the front of the hall. 

He sits himself down next to Lord Robert, not much to his liking but is his rightful place. The boy eyes him fearfully as he grips the wrist of his true protector in dread. His grip must be tight as Petyr can see the boy's long and dirty nails digging deeply into the soft and pale skin of the girl. The girl gasps in pain but does not say a word of complain. How dutiful.

When food is being served he finds his gaze floating towards her. He can see her hair is longer now, with its end almost reaching her hip. He notes she has not been sloppy with the dyeing of her hair as not one thread of auburn hair is visible. She has grown taller as well, unlike Lord Robert who is as sickly as ever and seems to not have grown at all. If she stands straight, she may be as tall as him already or even taller, although the idea is very much unwelcome. Her body has became more, Petyr smiles slyly at the thought, feminine. Her breasts are rounder and filling up her bodice. She almost has the figure of a woman now. A vivid picture of her lying under him with her dress torn apart has invaded his head and he feels a desperate eagerness down under his waist. 

The feeling of his own cock pressing hard again his breeches is unsettling and he is immediately thankful for the dim lighting in the hall that hides away his inappropriateness. He allows himself to set his eyes on her, to let his imagination go wild. If she is indeed trying so hard to ignore him she would not mind a little stare. But if this has made her uneasy she has done a fantastic job to hide it. She patiently persuades the young lord to eat his dinner but the boy seems to have lost all his appetite. The Lord of the Eyrie gives his stepfather worried looks every now and then as he fidgets on his seat. Petyr is glad the boy is afraid of him. He has no tolerance for a piece from his cyvasse that he will soon dispose of. He retrieves his gaze and drinks from his goblet quietly.

After a few yelling and a few rounds of tears shedding the young Lord Robert begins to drowse as his head nods rhythmically in sleepiness. With a wave of his hand Petyr has the servants carrying the boy to his own bedchamber to rest. With no one in between them it is now plain that his bastard daughter is reluctant to even acknowledge of his presence. She looks down on her meal which seems barely touched as she take small sips of mead from her goblet. He sees it as a challenge and takes it. 

"Alayne," He moves to the grand seat of Lord Robert and says softly, "how are you doing?" A simple and warm regard from father to daughter. 

Alayne presses her lips together and closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Very well, father," Alayne finally turns to him with a sweet smile on her face and her eyes reflecting nothing but innocence. He immediately recognises the falseness of her smile. This is ironic. Before she has decided to treat him like air she has a few valuable lessons from him and everything she knows she has learnt from him. He smirks. Does this seem to be a game to her?

"I trust that you had a wonderful time here in the Eyrie." He says casually, toying with his fork. His voice is pressed low to keep the servants from hearing their conversation, even when the hall is too grant and the servants too busy minding their own businesses. But one can never be too cautious. "Did our good maester assist you with the taking care of Lord Robert?" The question rolls off his tongue without he realisng it. The idea of that impostor spending time with her when he is gone is a pricking thorn, and the matter has been disturbing since his departure to the Gate of Moon. If the vermin has done anything to her he -- he cannot bare the thought. He fixes his eyes on hers, big and blue and not giving away anything. 

Alayne does not answer. She takes her time and sips lightly from her wine. He is irritated by her delay. "Of course, father" Alayne finally speaks and smiles sweetly at him, her eyes unblinking, "He had kept my company in your absence and had proven how--skillful he is at performing his duty." She giggles and puts down her goblet, her cheeks pink. 

Petyr's eyes widen as there is a wave of rage inside him. How dare she-- so she does see it as a game. Does she find it funny to soil herself just to acerbate him? He will not be subjected to her revengeful behaviour. He conceals his anger and stares at her who smiles playfully at him. His fist tightens on his laps and he has an urge to put the blame on someone. 

Alayne breaks their eye contact and laughs. She then turns her head towards the servants' tables. Petyr's gaze follows the direction and spots the young falcon. He is talking to the other servants and gulping down cheap ale. His height and well built body have made him easy to notice among the others. He looks incredibly stupid and naive with his boyish feature and he cannot seem to stop smiling like an idiot. Hypocrite, liar, filth. Petyr glares at Alayne, not believing in the idea. He reaches and cups her jaw tightly as he pulls her close. He can play as well if that is what she wishes for.

She looks him in his eyes and he freezes when he can finally read her emotion off her for she has made no attempt to veil it this time: it is pure hatred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some bits about this chapter i like, and some bits not so much. anyway, i hope you are enjoying it and sticking to it.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note when writing this in june: I don't know where I am going with this and I hate myself for it.

Note: Note when writing this in june: I don't know where I am going with this and I hate myself for it.  
Note: (nothing to do with the chapter) if you are reading this, thank you. you have survived my earliest chapters which i now think were quite badly written. seriously i could not lay my eyes on them. i hope you wont give up on me even when i do. 

His force on her jaw is vigorous. She felt strangled when he pulled her to him. His skin on hers feels hot and clammy and she wants nothing more than to wiggle free. The look he gives her is vicious and brutal. There, she thinks, you have revealed yourself, a monstrous creature consumed by greed. She is not afraid of him. The little bird might break and beg for mercy under such intense gaze but no, she is not the little bird. She looks back into his eyes, grey-green and glinting with a mixture of desire and rage. Anger is a weakness, Alayne knows, and your enemies would make it a weapon of theirs shall you fail to manage it. She has learnt to shield her emotions to protect herself. Did Petyr not teach her that? But it seems he is the one to break first. He must think she is still the predictable harmless little girl he had left in the Eyrie. But she is not. She can easily toy with Petyr the way she can with Harrold. After all, men are the same and they only want one thing from women. Once you have seized them they cannot go far. Alayne stares at Petyr, the man that had seduced her and deceived her then abandoned her afterwards. She will not forget that. The North remembers. 

Unexpectedly, Petyr's grasp softens. There is no sign of fury on his calm face as he has hidden it behind a mask again. He gently strokes her cheek with his thumb and his eyes are warm and kind. Alanye knows more than that than to believe he is actually capable of feeling empathy towards another human being other than Littlefinger himself. She flicks his hand away.

"Stop it." her tone firm and absolute. She has had enough of his falseness. 

Petyr remains under his perfect mask as he shrugs his shoulders and smiles. He then stands up and nods slightly, his expression still inscrutable. She expects him to kiss her goodnight, to play his part as her father, but he simply turns around and leaves the dinner table. 

***************

Alayne bids her handmaid goodnight and locks the door of her chamber. She has won that round with Petyr. She should be proud of herself to have outsmarted him. Instead, she feels empty and lost. She is tired of dealing with his perfection and imperfection altogether. She wants to rest and quit this mind game of theirs. But she knows there is no going back. Lies have been told and risks taking cannot be afforded.

Alayne strips herself off her finery until she has nothing but smallclothes on. She walks up to her feather bed and crawls below the warm woolen blanket. It is cozy under the blanket and she soon ignores the itchy feeling the fabric has on her skin. She rolls herself up into a ball and exhales deeply in comfort. 

"Magnificent, I have to say." A rough voice creeps up behind her. 

Alayne finds herself totally unsurprised. Littlefinger has a cruel humour of presenting himself at the most unsuitable timing and she is used to it. She does not even question his method of entrance anymore and is willing to let him keep his little secret. She thinks his way of ambushing others when they are at their most vulnerable gives him an illusion of power, something he obviously lacks but wants. 

Alayne smiles and sits up, facing him as she stretches and straightens her legs under the blanket. 

Petyr's face is red, drunk most likely. Intoxication is a weakness and a weakness gains Alayne an early advantage. He has become negligent with her, she notices. He was defeated at dinner and drinking would not help him this time. Wine makes your enemy's mind weak and easier for you to extract information from them, he once said in one of their lessons. Is he using himself as an illustrative example to test out his theory? Alayne snickers at the irony. 

"What is, father?" Alayne asks lazily and brushes her brown hair, untangling the knots her hair sometimes makes. 

"You." Petyr narrows his eyes and looks at her. He approaches her and almost trips himself in unbalance. 

What a foolish drunkard. She watches indifferently as her lord father struggles to stand straight. She has little compassion for him. He does not deserve any.

Petyr succeeds in making his way to her bed. He drops on top of her legs, his body heavy and stinks of wine which makes her frown.

"You are hurting me." Alayne complains, her voice cold and irritated. She cannot move freely under his weight and this panics her. She does not like it.

Petyr barks out a raw laughter. He turns, still suppressing her, and rubs her long legs slowly through the blanket that sends a shiver down her spine.

"What are you doing?" Alayne asks in alert. She does not like the way his eyes are, frantic but abnormally focus, considering his drunkenness. It makes her uneasy as she cannot guess his intention. "Stop that, now." She orders, her voice trembling to her disliking: she feels small and fragile the way his touch can easily affect her. 

Petyr obliges but his sly grin is discomforting and his hands still hold her legs. "I bet you didn't say that to him." He crawls up to her and presses his hands onto the wall by the sides of her head. She feels trapped and cowers unconsciously. So up close she can feel his warm and fast breathing on her cheeks and see her own timid reflection through his glassy eyes. 

"To whom?" She asks, her voice as small as a mosquito. She is surprised by her courage to raise her voice. 

Petyr's grin widens and his breath becomes hotter. "Harry the handsome, sweetling. I bet you didn't tell him to stop when he fuck you. In fact," he raises a finger and jolts it dangerously at her face. "you had probably offered yourself to him, visiting his chamber at night naked and willing." 

He is out of his mind, the thought flashes through Alayne's head.

"So did you or did you not," Petyr pushes himself away from her and stands up, staring from above. His voice is a lot calmer now but not less dangerous, "let him-- touch you?" 

Alayne is sensing a slim thread of hope in his moment of hesitation. She returns his gaze. He is just a drunkard and can do her no harm. The wine has distorted his mind and she is winning. She is trusting her observation and betting on crushing him with a final blow. 

"I let him fuck me as hard as he wanted and I was screaming his name when he was inside me and it felt so good." Alayne says softly and watches the effects of her words as Petyr's face twists in pain and dismay. His expression soon turns into numbness as he falls back into darkness where the warm light of the candle does not reach. 

"I see." He says in the shadow, his voice desperate and broken. Oddly, she does not feel like a winner and there is a bitter ache in her chest. "I hope you are happy," a pause, "Sansa." 

She hears the hidden door opens and closes and knows he has left her. She sits on her bed and stares into the dim and flickering candle.  
light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (nothing to do with the chapter) if you are reading this, thank you. you have survived my earliest chapters which i now think were quite badly written. seriously i could not lay my eyes on them. i hope you wont give up on me even when i do.


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I myself did not expect things to go this way.

Robert has grown very fond of Harrold, especially after seeing Petyr's refusal to be present when Harrold is. He clings onto him the way he used to on Alayne. Alayne cannot say if she likes the arrangement. It is good to have someone sharing the burden of Robert but also annoying to be taking care of two boys at a time. Harrold is eight-and-ten, a full man grown but he still flushes like a little boy when talking to her. Harrold is gallant enough however, his manner perfect and his gesture flawless. Still, his simple mind and failure to see through the sugarcoated surface of things is pricking her. She darkly thinks his odds of surviving this game of thrones they are playing is very small with his lacking knowledge and interest for politics. However, Lord Robert demands the company of his good maester wherever he goes making his presence unavoidable. Every now and then Harrold would try to ingratiate his betrothed with handpicked flowers from the garden and cheap praises that come naturally off his mouth. She appreciates his effort but greatly dislikes his irritating persistence.

It is time for Sweetrobin's nap and Harrold invites her for a walk. Before she comes into her realisation she has nodded quite automatically. Harrold offers her his arm and she takes it while rolling her eyes, blaming herself for her stupidity. They pace around the yard of the Eyrie but have soon run out of things to say, as Aalyne is unsurprised to find out. The only subject his simple mind can come up with is Sweetrobin and Sweetrobin. What a nice boy he is. Yes he is charming isn't he. He would be a strong knight if he was not so sick. Yes what a shame. I am glad he likes me. Yes and I too. The two of them soon fall into an awkward silence. Harrold scratches his blonde hair mindlessly while Alayne stares blankly at her feet as they walk, thinking she would be better off in her own chamber alone with a book in her hands. She realise his uneasiness but has no attempt to save him otherwise. She prefers the dignified silence that hangs between them to their fallen short dialogue.

"What a delightful scene," Alayne looks up and sees Petyr, holding a scroll of parchment in his hands and his expression grey and unlively. "two youths enjoying the time of their lives." He glimpses at their entwined arm and comments, with a mocking sarcasm in his tone and a hint of bitterness. He looks like an old man this morning with an obvious loss of weight as his dark green tunic hangs loosely on him. His hair seems more grey than dark and his beard is in an urgent need for a trim. Alayne does not recall seeing the Lord Protector so slovenly about his appearance. 

Harrold retrieves his arm quickly and puts it behind his back: a fruitless attempt to hide his inappropriateness from the lord's judging eyes. Alayne senses an upcoming teasing smile from her lord father but his lips simply twitch slightly then resume to their cold and non-smiling position. "M'Lord, I meant no harm to your daughter." Harrold explains but his voice all shaky and nervous. Alayne retains her urge to strike him on his forehead to keep his mouth shut. He is making her life difficult.

"Of course not, why would he?" She squeaks and forcefully pulls his hand back out, lacing their fingers as she leans on his shoulder. Harrold turns and looks at her, awestruck, but she pretends not to notice. "We were having this nice discussion on this book I have just read. The maester has the most brilliant opinion on it. They say wisdom can be shown from a man's choice of reading. Do you not agree, father?" She grins at Petyr while biting her lower lip, looking as innocent as possible.

Petyr's face tenses as his eyes skim over Harrold and settle on Alayne. He rarely blinks, she notices, the depth of his eyes is like a sea of grey and green, dragging her in and drowning her all the same. She feels lost under his scorching gaze but is not afraid to meet it. 

"Of course." He hisses and forces a rigid smile on his face. 

Alayne chuckles. She stands on her toes and puts her fingers in Harrold's blonde hair as she draws him close. She closes her eyes and kisses Harrold on his mouth. The boy's face is oily and burning hot. She hears a sharp intake of breath and the sound of Petyr's footsteps distancing away. She smiles against Harrold's lips, triumphed. Once she thinks Petyr is gone she breaks the kiss and moves away from Harrold, who is red faced and stunned. 

"My lady!" Harrold gasps and raises his hand to touch his lips, looking absurd and bemused. 

Alayne fixes her hair and ignores him. She skims over the surrounding to make sure Petyr is out of sigt and earshot. Once she is certain she turns to Harrold and says, her tone casual, "Have no worry, ser. My lord father would not hold you accountable for any misbehaviour." Well that is practically not true. Alayne knows exactly what Petyr is capable of when dealing with people who defy him, her dearest aunt Lysa, for example. But Harrold is too important to be removed from the game right now as their marriage pact is the key to all his schemes. What Harrold does not know would not hurt him. Still, he eyes her with uncertainty and disbelief. Alayne dismisses the subject with a flick of her hand and pleas, "Would my kind knight excuse my presence? The dazzling sun is making me dizzy." The day is cool with the sun hidden behind the thick clouds with a gentle breeze in the air, but the excuse seems good enough for Harrold as he nods curtly and offers his escort. She refuses gracefully and bids him a good day. 

Alayne expectedly finds Petyr in his solar as she closes the door behind her. He has buried himself behind his desk which is flooded with parchments and books. He lies on the wooden desk and in his hand a skin of wine. When she enters he sits up and barks furiously, "I would cut off your arms for not knock--Oh," He blinks at her, "you." He returns to his previous slouching position and takes a gulp from his wine. 

"I see you are already practicing your vice, so early the day." She mocks and sneers. "Do you not think you are drinking yourself into an early grave, father?" Alayne slides towards the desk and takes away the skin from his hand. Petyr seems surprised by her action as he sits up again. 

"I could say the same about you, you know." He smiles weakly but slyly, looking more like the cunning Littlefinger she knows instead of the dying sick man she saw earlier. 

"No I do not. You have to tell me." Alayne shrugs and looks around the room but it seems the only chair is already occupied by Petyr. In a swift movement she pushes all of Petyr's things off his desk: the quills, the scrolls, the leather-jacketed books and his wax sealer, all fall onto the stone floor, making a large bang. The ink bottle breaks in a clear clang, painting the floor with its pitch black content. Alayne ignores Petyr's protest and proceeds to sit on his now empty desk with her legs crossed.

"What was that?" Petyr's murmurs in a low voice as he sits back on his chair, his eyes roaming openly on her exposed thighs. "That was very un-ladylike." He scolds, but his tone jeering. 

"Nothing." Alayne bites her lips mischievously as she dangles her feet, hitting the side of the desk gently, making a rhythmic knocking sound. She lifts up the skin of wine and examines it. "Arbor gold, I reckon." She takes a light sip then beams at Petyr. "And I am right. So, what vice am I practicing, father?" 

Petyr laughs a drunk laugh and stands up. Alayne's gaze follows his movement until she is looking at him just below eye level. The grey and green in his eyes are gone now and is replaced by a darkness she has never seen before. Quite instinctively she holds her breathe, waiting for, or even anticipating him to make his first move. She can feel her own heart thudding in her chest. With only the occasional cracking of the firewood in the corner the room is so quiet she is afraid he can hear her nervousness. Petyr's cheeks are still red from the wine and his lips are slightly parted as if there is something he wishes to say. Seeming after forever he gently puts his hands on Alayne's shoulders, his touch so light she can barely feel it through her gown. And he simply holds his hands like there, resting on her shoulders. Alayne blinks at him, failing to hide her confusion. 

"This is your vice." Petyr looks down on her a moment later and says, his voice stern and just. Quite forcefully he pushes Alayne to lie on the desk. The collision so strong causing a dangerous crack from the wood. Her back hurts and a painful moan escapes her mouth. She struggles to rise up but Petyr holds her shoulders in place. "Be still." he says softly, sounding almost like a plea to Alayne. She looks up at him and his expression is mild, without a single hint of Littlefinger's demanding character. She tilts his head, slightly frowning, and decides she will let him have his way this time. She closes her eyes and listens to her own breathing, deep and slow. It calms her nerves. 

Petyr sees her silence as a sign of approval and smirks. He bends over until his face is just an inch before hers. His breathing is heavy and hot on her cheeks. He presses his mouth on her neck, nibbling at her sensitive skin. His teeth smoothly graze at her jawline as he works his way upward, leaving wet trails of his saliva. His lips find Alayne's and part them, his tongue pushing itself into her mouth. He frees his hand from her shoulders, his fingers gliding on her dress. One hand cleverly lifts up her dress and touches her inner thigh. 

Alayne does not know when did she start squirming. But she did. The closeness between them is suffocating. "Stop." she puts one hand on his chest and pushes him off. She turns her head away, evading the sight of him. Supporting herself with her elbows, she sit up, ignoring the unsafe sound that the desk produces. 

"What?" Petyr wipes his mouth with his sleeve and stares at her, his gaze burning. His face is redder than the normal effect that wine would bring.

"I cannot..." She murmurs, her gaze purposelessly roaming on the stone floor as her eyes reluctant to meet his. She feels like a small child getting caught with a piece of lemon cake stolen from the kitchen. 

"I can see that," he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, "but why? Is it because of that fucker?"

"Don't say that about Harry." She raises her voice.

Petyr's lips twitch in quick anger. "Fine." he crosses his arms and turns his back, strolling around his chamber, "Listen to yourself. You are defending him."

"I am sorry." Alayne buries her face in her palms, and sighs. She did not expect things to escalate so quickly. 

Petyr does not say anything. Alayne allows the silence to hang around a bit longer before looking back up, ready for a confession. 

"I need to tell--" 

In Petyr's hands is a silver flagon. He swiftly lifts it up and strikes her on her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy.... I am stopping again. I have no inspiration for my Chp 16 and I don't like the approach I am taking.


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... I hope this does not sound so melodramatic to you.

Her head is swimming.

There are stars floating in mid-air. That does not make sense. Stars do not float in mid-air. They are hung up in the sky and can only be seen in the dark of nights. The stars are sparkling as well. Perhaps they are wanting to tell her something. She wants to reach out and touch them. But her arms feel heavy, almost like they are strapped together by a rock. She cannot move. Panic overtakes her and she screams. But no sound comes out from her throat. Then she falls.

Alayne opens her eyes. She has never been so awake and alert in her life. She is lying on something soft, possibly a bed. The air is cold and the room is dark. The only thing she can hear is her own breathing. Her breaths transform into misty white whisk that is just visible within inches from her face. Although her body is shivering from the cold, her head feels hot and there is a warm stickiness on her forehead. She raises her arm, wishing to inspect the source of her discomfort. The movement seems to have triggered something horrible as the pain rushes to her like an unstoppable flood. Her forehead seems to have swollen and the weight of her head is suddenly far too heavy for her neck to support even with the soft bed against her back. She groans, the sound amplified by the dead silence and the openness of the room.

"Don't move," a cold male voice says in a distance, "you are bleeding."

 _Petyr._ Alayne wants to sit up, only to be overcome by the enormous pain. She cries out.

"I said," A pause, "Don't move." He seems to be running of of patience, but his tone sounds more like a begging than a command.

Alayne ablides. She shuts her eyes, and she remembers the kiss, the flagon, Petyr's numb face when he smites her... Remembering does not sooth her pain. It seems to have enhanced it. Even with her eyes closed, she feels dizzy. There is a revolting feeling in her stomach that she is barely holding in.

Petyr walks closer to her, but only to stop and back away as his footsteps distant away.

Is he to leave her behind in this darkness? Alayne does not wish to be alone, not when her head is about to crack in half and the coldness in the room closing to freeze her and shut down her senses. But her worries are unnecessary. She hears the striking of stones and the room is immediately brightened up by a small fire, restoring her vision. Based on the hangings on the rods above the bed she recognises her own bedchamber.

"Thank you, my lord..." Alayne tilts her head forward using whatever strength she has left in her to give Petyr her thanks for the provision of the fire, no matter how miserably tiny it still is.

A glimpse of her body and she discovers she is naked.

_Oh gods._

Alayne forces herself to sit up regardless of the killing pain as she scratches her surrounding to find anything to cover her nudity. _Anything, anything._ But she has no luck. Even with the dim lighting in the room it is plain clear there is nothing around on the bed that can hide her exposure. She looks up and finds Petyr staring at her, with hungry eyes roaming all over her naked body. The way he looks is almost animalistic, like a predator preparing for an attack. She blushes, and the shame starts to spread. She backs away, until her back touches the wooden bed frame. She embraces herself, holding her legs together, her arms covering her breasts and her private part. Then she stays perfectly still, not allowing her body to quiver. She watches as Petyr approaches her, her eyes locked with his.

Petyr walks up to the bed until he is arm-length away from her. He glances down for a split second and closes his eyes. He swiftly turns and sits on the edge of the bed, his back facing her. He is oddly fully dressed, a huge contrast with her nakedness. _Maybe he did not do anything_ , Alayne thinks, hopefully. But then he starts to undo the button of his doublet, she cannot help but bites her lips. Is he ...

"Here," to her surprise Petyr stretches his arm backward (which she reflectively flinches from) and hands over his doublet, with his face still facing the wall, "use this." She hesitates for a moment, before reaching out and grabs it. The doublet feels warm in her hands, and smelled of mint, of him. It is plain black and made of cloth, not silk, indeed very ordinary and not a piece of finery, but Alayne has never been so happy to receive anything from anyone. She puts on the doublet with haste, almost inserting her arm into the wrong sleeve.

"Done?" Petyr asks after a moment.

"Yes." Alayne catches her breaths and pulls the doublet, ensuring that it at least covers her bottom.

Petyr turns around, tossing one leg onto the bed. He scans through her body and manages to produce a lazy smile.

"It suits you well."

Alayne presses her lips together and hardens her expression. His flattery did not reach her. She demands an explanation and an apology. The pain on her forehead is about to squeeze tears from her eyes. She has every reason in the world to yell at him and slap him hard on his teasing face.

Petyr retrieves his smile, looking a lot more serious. "You lied to me," he hisses, narrowing his eyes, "You said you have given your maidenhead to Hardyng."

"How did you know?" She raises her eyebrow, "Did you--" The sudden realisation of him inspecting her when she was unconscious hits her like an arrow on her head and raises colour on her cheeks. "You are shameless, aren't you?" She strikes, disgusted and finding it hard to comprehend. _How far could this man go?_

"Ahh. You did not deny it, did you?" He dodges her accusation as he leans forward and glares at her, his weight sinking down the bed, "Why did you lie?"

She raises her chin in anger, holding her ground, "Why? Does it matter? He is my betrothed. My maidenhead belongs to him."

"It is not yours to give away whenever you like." he barks, " You listen, and you obey. You do not make a move unless I told you so."

His words have wounded her. She lowers her gaze as she fails to hold back the drops of tears that roll down her face. She bites on her lips so hard she can taste blood to stifle the cry at her throat. She will not allow him to hear her whimper. She will not allow herself to fall so low. She stares straight at the small fire burning in the far end of the room and holds herself tighter.

He told her she could become a player, to evolve from being just a piece. He taught her how to play, and for once she felt like she was not that stupid little girl, for once she could have power, could have a say. She believed in that. She has since devoted her time into learning his ways. He said she was the key to the North. He made her felt so important she could almost touch the sky. _Almost._ Then he tells her she is just a piece after all, to be used and disposed at his will. Alayne wants to laugh at how easily she has fallen into his tricks again. _You never learn, do you?_

"Why did you come?" Petyr murmurs, breaking the silence, "Why did you mock me in the morning then came to me and offered yourself only to refuse me again?"

Alayne wipes the blood on her lips onto the sleeve. "I don't know." She looked down and mutters. She does not know the answer to his question. What was she planning on doing? Was she simply trying to tease him, to see him break under her? She sneers lightly, thinking what a foolish idea it was, to come into Littlefinger's lair and expects to come out as a winner.

Her reply has failed to please him. He grips her wrist and says, his tone firm and harsh, "Why. Did. You. Come?"

"I said I don't know!" Alayne retrieves her arm in a fling, the movement so strong for her injured head to handle. She collapses backward onto the bed frame, maintaining a slouching position. Her vision gets blurry all of a sudden and the fire is just too bright for her eyes. She feels more nauseous than ever. But she refuses to close her eyes even when her eyelids get heavier and heavier by every second and every muscle in her body is screaming at her to go to sleep and take rest. She wants to be awake. She fights off the urge to shut her eyes and attempts to sit up again with a more dignified position, but her body remains motionless as she realises all her energy has left her and she has no strength to even make a subtle move.

"No sudden movement." She hears Petyr says, his voice rather cold and uncaring. "I have wrapped you head with bandages. But there were not enough. There was so much I could do without raising suspicion. I have burnt your clothes as well. They were covered in blood from your wound."

 _You controlling bastard,_ Alayne wants to scream out loud, but only soft squeaks are formed on her lips, sounding painfully like pitiful whines.

Petyr puts her delicate hand in his without warning.

"Your skin is burning." He says, with the first hint of concern throughout the entire night in his voice. He slightly strokes her palm. "I will get the maester. Hold on."

"Don't..." Alayne whispers and manages to lightly squeeze his hand when he motions to leave. Even the subtlety of the movement has drained her and sent the muscle in her arm to ache. But she simply does not want to be left alone, no matter who her company may be.

Petyr lingers on for a moment, deciding on the proposal.

Alayne feels a kiss on the back of her hand. His lips brush on her hand so briefly she almost cannot feel it.

"Sorry, sweetling. I have to."

With that, the warmth of his fingers leave her. She surrenders and closes her eyes as she lets her mind drifts away into a pit of chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently rewriting chapter 16. I simply cannot stand how cliche it once was. I think that's why I stopped.


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real plot. Just a bit of self reflection of Petyr. But I promise things are going to happen later ok.

"She slipped." Petyr lies perfectly, not even with a blink of an eye or a wince of a muscle that may betray him as he watches the young falcon redoing Alayne's bandages. As tall as he is, towering over Petyr for a good front arm length, the boy is still a boy. He looks confused as he wipes Alayne's blood off his hands onto a towel. "Really?" He asks, forgetting himself, then immediately adds, "m,lord."

Petyr ignores him. It is not a maester's place to question the lord. He should have learnt that by now. "Do your best to heal her." Petyr orders, while mindlessly stroking his stubled chin. When was the last time he shaved?

"The fever is high on her, m'lord." Harrold says, his gaze roaming nervously at Petyr but never brave enough to meet his, "I am uncertain when will she wake, or will she even..." the apple in his throat moves nervously up and down as his voice trails off into a soft whimper. The boy seems to be at the edge of breaking. Annoyed, Petyr waves him off. The boy clumsily wipes his hands clean and finishes with the bandages, without noticing that Petyr's eyes have been locked on him the whole time.

"I would be in my chamber shall m'lord seek my attendence." the maester says, picking up the water basin, "Lady Alayne may later require some--" "Quickly now, boy." Petyr sings softyly, interrupting him. "I bet you have other duties to attend to." his tone is light and casual and for a second he sounds like a kind father giving his children warm advices. _Of course, he would be a complete fool to misterpret otherwise._ Petyr's lips curve into a jeering small smile. The boy is frowning slightly and Petyr can almost see through his head and watches as the boy weighs through the idea of talking back. His mouth opens as he prepares to spill out more dim words but he bites on his lips and remains silent. _His first wise move since he stepped into the room_ , Petyr thinks, and nods back curtly as the boy leaves.

Once alone, Petyr lets out a long sigh. He walks to his desk and puts his hands on the edge of the desk, feeling the roughness of the wood under his palms. His belongings lay still on the floor. He wonders if the falcon has taken note of the messiness of his solar and has linked Alayne's injury to an attack. It is a troublesome thought but Petyr soon consoles himself by remembering he boy's racklessness and his lack of mind. Compared to the boy's suspicion, the chaotic state of his possessions may proven be a more concerning matter. A finished letter is crushed under his books and ink bottle. The dark ink has leaked out and has created an ugly pile of mess. He fails to see why would the lordlings appreciate his creased and contaminated letter and how it would help him thrive in his game of power. He shall remind himself to rewrite it when morrow comes. He takes a deep breathe and the strange smell of ink has filled his nostrils, along with a scarce scent of blood. He turns his head and looks at Alayne, as beautiful as she is, lying on his bed. How many times has he pictured her on his bed? He feels a bit sad at the notion. He drags an armchair next to the bed, making as little sound as he can. The wooden chair makes a loud crack during the process but the girl remains undisturbed as her chest moves gently to the rhythm of her light breathing. Petyr finally sits himself down on the armchair and sinks into the softness.

She is perfect. Her face is slightly red due to the high fever but it only enhances her beauty and makes her look like a blushing maid. He is tempted to reach out and touch her cheekbone, but only to restrain himself as his hand grips tightly on his other. So up close, he can smell her scent. It reminds him of a young and kind-hearted boy playing by a river with his queen of beauty. He smiles, cherishing the ordor of her presence. The only thing about her that is less to his liking, however, is the colour of her hair. Its dull brown is like an ink blot on an oil painting, seemingly insignificant but enough to mark the difference between a masterpiece and a kitsch. Other than that, she is as beautiful as her mother was, with her big eyes and straight nose, not even a hint of her father's resemblance. She is wearing her night gown, a gift from him, and his lent doublet is serving as her pillow. It was fontunate for him to remember to get her into other clothes that are not his. Even the stupid boy would have figured out something is out of the ordinary if Alayne wears nothing but his doublet. The scent of blood in the air is getting thicker and for the first time in many years he feels a trace of guilt for his action. He was not himself, to be driven by quick rage. He prides himself for his rationality, and he failed to be deliver it at the time. He needed to know if she is spoiled. He was desperate. However, what is done is done and is unamendable. Petyr twitches his nose upon his own reflection. Petyr Baelish is a lot of things and a man with remorse is not one of them. Shall he be delayed by regrets on his way to the peak of power he would have fallen a long time ago.

"Alayne..." Petyr tests, for once naively thinks she may wake up to his calling. He immediately feels foolish and warns himself not to do that again. He glimpses around to ensure his complete solitude and that no one has heard him. His mouth feels dry as he licks his lips. There is only wine in this chamber to sooth his thirst but the idea of more wine gives him a headache. Perhaps it is time he leaves. The hour is late and Petyr is tired. He should catch some sleep before dawn and before the return of his duty. He stands up from his chair and straightens his doublet. He looks down on his daughter, peacfully resting on her bed, away from all the distress in this cursed world. He suddenly wonders if she is dreaming.

After a moment of consideration, Petyr leans forward and kisses her lips. A word escapes Alayne's mouth. Petyr immediately pulls away and stares intensively at her. He thinks he heard something rediculously sounding like his name. Did she just mutter 'Petyr' in her sleep? He lets the idea lingers before letting out a smug laugh and leaves the room with a genuine smile on his face.


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second version of my Chp16. I finished my first version but scrapped it completely afterwards. It is nothing similar to this version you are about to read. In fact it is going the opposite direction and the story would have turned out badly dramatic and a bit of a cliche.

Petyr lifts up the flagon from his desk and pours himself a full cup of wine. The red liquor seems nearly tasteless in his mouth but he washes it down his throat all the same. He is quite certain the servants had it watered. No wonder, with the harsh winter coming and the promise of years of unfruitful harvests lying ahead, resources are running extremely short. Rumor has it in some remote areas of westeros poor farmers are practicing cannibalism. It gives him chills to think how cruel and inhumane a desperate person could be, devouring your spouse and children just to gain a temporary sense of fulfillment in their stomach. A raven came this morning, a black raven.  _Dark wings, dark words._  House Brax of Hornvale has fallen. A group of raiders, bearing torches and axes, had intruded the castle at midnight. Lord Brax was slain in his sleep and his wife and daughters were raped. The castle was burnt down to the ground, leaving nothing but a pile of crumbled bricks and stones, along with the burnt corpses of the members of House Brax. Hornvale is half a world away, located in the Westerlands. But as tempting as the Vale is, being untouched by war fire, Petyr is concerned of the security of his seat. As a matter of fact, the Vale is not doing any much better. Perhaps there are no cannibals or raiders in his land, but people are starving. Resources are running out, fast. Special preservation strategies are required but the side effects are proven to be very unpleasant. The castle is always cold, unbelievably cold, for no hot water is to run in the pipes in the walls. The air has become hard to breathe in. With every breath Petyr takes he feels stabbed in his chest. But at least he has a small fire burning in his fireplace. The servants, as he knows although they would never be bold enough to complain, are trembling every night rocking themselves to sleep. He lost his best cook the week ago to frost bite, and his squire the week before. To save oil for better purposes, Petyr has forbidden the lighting up of walled torches, which he has hated himself for this decision. It leaves the castle in constant darkness. The Eyrie has become a gloomy place to live in, a  _living hell_  even. People die so often and it would not be a normal day if no less than two deaths are reported every morning. Robert Arryn however, Petyr grinds his teeth at the thought of the sickly child, has magically survived the cold. Harrold Hardyng (Why is he still here?) had predicted the little lordling would be the first to go shall winter comes. And yet, he is still breathing till this very day, consuming resources as better and stronger men drop to the ground, never to see the rise of the sun again.  _Gods are merciful,_  the septon would say as he chants his prayers for the good health of Lord Robert.  _Gods are merciful indeed,_  to bring this winter upon and doom many to their deaths. If the gods really have mercy then their mercy is fading. The Eyrie cannot hold on any longer than a year or two. Petyr was the master of coin and he knows numbers do not lie. The days of the Eyrie are numbered. He ought to have left this castle to rot moon turns ago. But Alayne's condition has forbidden him to do anything daring.

Petyr finishes his cup, and stares blankly at the wall. It has been two months since Alayne fell into her coma. Gods, he cannot believe how long it has been. But it feels longer for him, especially with the situation in the Vale deteriorating so quickly. Every second that passes by is a reminder of his act, of his stupidity and of his horrifying lack of judgement. Alayne Stone has always been in his plan. Ever since the fallen of Eddard Stak he has been plotting and scheming to remove his daughter from King's Landing. Her marriage to the Imp, per se, has served as a great motivation to get her out of there as soon as possible. Then it was done, Alayne Stone was created. But his clever little plan is only to be ruined by his own mistakes. Does he now need to consider making new plans that does not require a Alayne Stone? The idea is very unwelcome. 

Alayne's hair has been troublesome. Not trusting any of his servants, Petyr needs to sneak into her chamber every fortnight to dye her hair. This task is not to be handled without care as it surely would cause suspicion shall her hair colour turns into a fierce red,  _Tully red_. If any connection is made between the daughter of a mockingbird and the daughter of a wolf, the lions would definitely hear something about it. 

Somone barges in the room, and has abruptly disrupted his thoughts. He winces his nose and shuts his eyes in displeasure. No matter how important the matter is, as a lord, Petyr can execute the intruder at his will, especially at a time like this. It would just be one less hungry mouth to feed. 

Petyr hears a gasp. "M'lord!" To his surprise, it is a young woman's voice. "I am sorry m'lord. I thought you were away from the Eyrie." The girl says, her voice confident with absolutely no hint of repentance. Petyr clasps his hands on his desk, then slowly turns his neck and faces the girl, his eyeballs lingering on the bright red of the girl's hair. "I came back early." He mutters, knowing it is unnecessary for him to provide an explanation of any sort. "And you are...?" He lazily asks, his lips barely moving and his eyes still locked on the girl's long hair. "Claire. I clean." She says, her response too curt for the usual reasoning of formality. If Petyr has not heard wrong, there is a faint edge of defiance in her tone. He is amused, impressed even, by the level of dignity and pride this low servant girl is showing. 

_This should be interesting._

Petyr's eyes roam from her hair onto her slender frame and onto her eyes. They are blue, like sapphires, glimmering in the dark. There is some true beauty to this girl, along with her wildness and refusal to abide to rules and authority. He sits there, looking and waiting. She wrinkles her eyebrows and moves her head slightly, seemingly surprised that her lord remains in silence. She bites on her lower lips, and an uncertain but genuine smile appears on her face. "Is anything at wrong, m'lord?" She tests, squeezing the water basin she is holding tighter with her lean arms. 

Petyr laughs, his laughter awkward in this strange atmosphere. He shakes his head and grins at her. "I enjoy your smile," He sets his eyes on the flagon of wine as he pours the liquid into two cups,  "You should do that more often, Cla--ire." He playfully lingers on on her name as he hands her a cup of wine. The word has a strange sense of familiarity on his tongue. But he decides not to put much thought onto it. "Drink with me would you kindly, my lady?" 

She does not even try to conceal her mistrust towards the invitation. She narrows her eyes at the lord. "I am flattered, m'l--ord," She imitates him, which causes Petyr to raise his brow and award her with a grin of approval. "But my tasks await me." She curtsies and proceeds to attend to her duties as she wets a towel and begins wiping the floor with it. 

Petyr watches her moving from this spot to that spot, scrubbing as hard as she possibly could. She is very thorough with her task, often spending excessive amount of time on repetitive scrubbing. He is entertained and has made no intention to move away as she crawls to his side, wishing to clean the area under his chair. He sits calmly, and smiles lightly at her glaring eyes. She does not dare to ask him to move, no she does not.  _She is willful, but not stupid_ , Petyr would give her that. His smile develops into a beam as his gaze flicks to her chest. Her breasts are showing through the low cut of her dress. She certainly has a very womanly figure that would drive men craving, which reminds him of his employees in his brothels in King's Landing. He suddenly wonders how often does she spread her legs to the soldiers and servants in the Eyrie. 

Claire quickly stands up as soon as his eyes are on her bodice, holding her dripping towel and staring at him from above. She looks taller up close. Petyr cannot tell if she is angry, or offended by the inappropriateness of his gaze. She seems... indifferent. 

She drops the wet towel onto the ground. Droplets of water splash out, wetting his shoes. She approaches him. Very slowly, she raises her hands and put them on his chest and gently tucks at the button of his shirt. Her heavy breaths are warm on his skin. He can smell the clean soap off her and feel the cold of her fingers through his doublet. His lips curve into a mocking smile, as he acknowledges the sense of wanting stirring in his body.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun imagining this is between Sansa and Petyr, at least that was how I imagined it when I wrote this.

"I enjoy your smile," Lord Baelish says, with a charming grin on his handsome face. "You should do that more often, Cla--ire." He offers a goblet of red to her, the dark light in his eyes flickering with mischief. "Drink with me would you kindly, my lady?" 

Claire squints at him, suppressing her urge to laugh.  _My lady_ , he says. The last time she encountered the lord he was definitely treating her like a proper lady, a proper lady with the wrong name. Sansa, he called her. She still has no clue who that name blongs to, presumably to some high born lady that he lusts for. What a fool, couldn't even distinguish one face from another. Then she reminds herself he was indeed quite drunk that night, remembering the stink of wine from his clothes and his foul smell of breath. And here he is, offering her wine. The irony seems surreal to her. She has long decided not to like him. She cannot forgive the way he has shamed her.  _Lady Claire Baelish,_  the fantasy in her head has vanished and left nothing but embarrassment.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._  She wants to bury the memory of her longings for this high lord that she has no chance with. What was she thinking?

"I am flattered, m'l--ord," She teases, staring straight into his dark pupils, casting away her silly thoughts. "But my tasks await me." Unaffected by his complimenting grin, she turns and performs her duties as the cleaner to Lord Baelish's chamber. It upset her, when she was first offered the task. She tried to distant herself away from the lord, and cleaning his chamber will be stepping right into his lair. But the Lady of the Eyrie has no need for a handmaid when she does not possess her consciousness. Claire must survives this winter, and if she protests or whines like some spoiled little girl she would be deemed useless and not worthy of the share of any supply. She was slightly relieved when she heard Baelish isn't always around. But then here he is. She feels betrayed by the false information. Calire is uncomfortably aware that Lord Baelish is watching her, as she gently places the water basin on a table, careful not to spill a drip of water. She soaks the towel into the basin, immediately feeling the freezing cold of the water along with the stingy pain it brings on her fingers. She squats and drops on her knees. The surface of the stone floor is cold. But it is already a lot better than some areas of the castle where thin layers of frost have accumulated. She has her back on her lord, and is suddenly conscious of his lingering eyes on her.  She is not accustomed to being watched so closely. Very often when she does her work no one would be around. She bites on her lips, and silently lets out a sigh as she begins to scrub the floor. The lord like his surroundings clean and spotless. People around are dying and all he care is tidiness.  _Is that not a bit selfish of him?_  

Claire does not put her mind to her task, and is almost certain she has left quite a few spots in her cleaning. Most of the time she finds herself mechanically scrubbing the same area over and over again before realising the muscle in her arm is already soaring due to the repeated motion. Concentration seems impossible today with her mind constantly in turmoil. She avoids making eye contact with Lord Baelish, who is sitting in his arm chair and has yet to make a sound since she has started her cleaning. He seems to be the only person in the room who is completely comfortable with their state. The notion to needing to face him eventually is dreadful but the act itself is unavoidable. After gods know how long she carries the towel to his side, and she looks up at him. He is even more handsome from this angle. He looks like a proper lord, powerful and just in his seat. The silver bird pinned on his collar reflects the brightness of the fire in the end of the room and seems to be flapping its wings, ready to take off and fly away. She looks into his eyes, dark, and mysterious. She thinks she has made herself clear enough that he ought to move away when she comes close with a cleaning towel, at least as a gesture of politeness. But he is still. He looks back at her, eyes unblinking. They are warm, however, reflection of kindness and good will. 

  
**No.**  She screams in her head. She cannot control herself but his gaze has sent her heart racing.  _Lady Claire Baelish._ _Lady Claire Baelish._ _Lady Claire Baelish..._

Then he looks away, his eyes now setting on her bodice.  

Claire recognises this look anywhere she goes: this look of lechery. She has first seen it from his step-father, then from his swine son, then from many other men who would have gladly raped her if they were given the chance, and now from him, the great Lord Protector of the Vale, still nothing more than a common man with their common thirst for a woman's body. But his eyes are not the worst of him. His mouth is. He is beaming, with a hint of mockery on his lips. The thought of them once on hers and her shoulder sends the hair on the back of her neck to stand.  

Claire stands up in disgust, commanding herself not to tremble. She angrily lets go of the wet towel and drags herself to him, even though her first instinct to any predator is to run away as fast as she could. She puts her hands on his chest, feeling his heart beating under his clothes. This would be a nice place to stab a knife into, she gloomily thinks, what a shame that she does not have a knife. The view of his blood gushing out of his chest would be a spectacular one. She scans through the desk behind him, and notices a quill within her reach. The tool may not be as sharp or effective as a knife, but if she is quick enough she should be able to pierce his neck with it, leaving him with a slow and painful death that he well deserves. She fidgets with his buttons. Such fine buttons, she wonders how much gold would she get if she sell them after his death. It should be an easy task to wash his blood off the silvery, but not quite when it comes to his silk wear. Bloody hell, the bastard smiles again, clearly having no idea what is up in her mind. She lifts up her skirt and his thighs jump when she sits on them, his manhood pushing hard against her. 

"Is this your way to please your lord?" He hisses, his breaths going heavier. His hands find her waist and he holds her firmly.  

"Oh no," She says through her panting, "It would please me even more." She wraps her fingers around his neck. She can feel the hot blood in his veins running under his skin. The man frowns upon her unusual behaviour but his vigilance is soon replaced by the moan that escapes his lips as she rocks herself forward and backward. Men are at their most invulnerable when they think they are getting what they want. She leans forward and catches his mouth in hers, swallowing his every sound. She smiles against his lips, he is good with his tongue, just as she remembers. His hands travel up her back and gently they pull at her hair. She sways on his laps even quicker and harder. At this rate he should be spilling his seeds in no time. She slowly moves her hand and reaches for the quill. She closes her eyes, and can feel triumph is nigh as the cold pen brush over her fingertips.  

Before she knows she is thrown onto the floor, with the hands of a man on her own very neck, his fingers strangling her with haste. Her hands reflectively try to pull away the tightness on her neck, but her lack of strength has made no impact whatsoever. She opens her mouth widely to scream, but her throat is clogged and only soft sounds of her neck bones crushing under the pressure are made. Petyr Baelish is looking down at her, his face flush but his smile cold and cruel. "Please, you are not even trying." He laughs, as she finds her lungs aching in need of air, "You know, I run brothels. Many have tried and failed, my lady." 

As her life is being drawn away from her and her vision starts to blur, Claire's last thought is  _Lady Claire Baelish._ _Lady Claire Baelish... L_ _ady Claire Baelish..._ _L_ _ady Claire Baelish..._


	19. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content ahead.

Death is around every corner of the Eyrie, its evil eyes lurking under the shadows, spreading its claws and reaping souls. His septon back in Ironoaks said the Stranger brings the kiss of death. Years of practice in the art of healing Harrold has learnt that is plainly not true. There is no Stranger behind death, only the failing of the human body mechanism: a wound, a fever, an infection. He understands how fragile humans are, even when some would pretend the otherwise. High lords and peasants fall and die all the same like leaves in winter. Death does not consider rankings and statuses when it picks its preys. There are no bargaining, no pleas, no reasoning. Death comes when the time is up. Pray to the gods, my child, the septon always sang in his prayers. It has been a very long while since Harrold last prayed. 'Gods' are non-existing entities that men made up to explain events that they have utterly no understanding of. Harrold pities these men, to create false figures to rule over their short lives, to let themselves bound by imaginative rules and to punish themselves when these rules are broken. Harrold believes in hard work and knowledge. He appreciates facts. He holds, however, the same attitude towards death as the setpon or as any godly men: Be afraid, be very afraid when death is nigh. And Harrold is currently very afraid.

Harrold crosses his fingers tightly together, trying to constrain the shaking of his hands. He cannot sleep. The air is cold, the floor he is sitting on colder even. Whose fucking idea was it to cover everything in the Eyrie with stone?

"Mur," Harrold says softly, "You awake?" 

Young Murry is sitting closely to him, his arms crossed and his legs bent in front of his chest with his back leaning against the wall. He is a skinny lad, just like any other low born lads who grow up in the Vale. He has blue eyes and dark hair. He often jokes around saying he is the bastard of Robert Baratheon and there is king's blood in his veins. Of course all peasant boys secretly wish they are someone else and one day they would be pulled away from their humbleness and live the rest of their lives as lords and kings. The truth is often boring and ordinary. Murry's father was an inn keeper in the Trident who had way too many sons and daughters to feed and way too few coins in his pockets to buy bread. He sold his fourth son to the Eyrie for some extra coppers when Murry was still a suckling babe and he has served in the castle ever since then.

"No," Murry says, pushing himself closer to Harrold, wishing to share his very little body heat. "Having sweet slumber in this bloody cold." A light smile creeps up Harrold's numb face. Murry is probably the only person in this castle that can make fun of any situation, even when it is a miserable one like this one. "I'm not like Boosey Snoozey over there who can sleep whenever the fuck he wants." Murry says, his voice low and quiet as to not wake the other servants who are also spending their night in this room. He nods his head at the fat baker lying three feet away from him. They say he has been smuggling bread and pies from the kitchen for his own enjoyment. Or else how could he still have the luxury of being fat when there are people starving to death? "Fuck littlefinger, fuck his bloody daughter, fuck this bloody winter." Murry curses, his words turning into thick white mist on his lips. 

Harrold closes his eyes and leans back until his head touches the wall behind him. Fuck littlefinger indeed. He is the one to blame for the misery they are in. He would not allow anyone to descend to the Gates of Moon, where it is warmer and resources are in abundance. No one dares to leave this castle, for defying Petyr Baelish means instant death. But thinking about it, a quick death may be a more desirable option than the painfully slow death that awaits before the end of this long winter. The lord is to wait until his daughter wakes up, that is if she does wake up. Harrold is afraid they would all have frozen to death before Baelish's bastard daughter opens her eyes again. It would be a real shame for someone as beautiful as the girl to die. But beauty is meaningless in this current world that only values physical possessions. Harrold cannot say he would miss her when she is gone. The girl is clearly not as wise as she thinks she is. She enjoys imagining herself as someone with power and control, as she so cleverly toys with poor Canolf's emotions. Harrold allows her to do whatever she wants as long as it keeps her happy. It is too tiresome to indulge in her child's play sometimes, to pretend to be a helplessly charmed fool. The girl does not know what is ahead of her if she indeed marries the future lord of the Eyrie, or else she would have treasured the remaining of her girlhood and go back to playing dolls instead of trying so hard to manipulate and disappoint her father. The burden of being the lady of a grant household will simply crush her. Being a bastard who rises so high to power as herself will only attract hatred and jealousy from other noble households, who have been wishing to marry their daughters into the house of Hardyng since Harrold was a boy. The war of policy always sheds more blood and does more damage than an actual war. However, it seems the bastard daughter has missed her chance to become more than who she currently is. Baelish claimed the girl fell and hit her head on the stone floor, not even half convincing to Harrold's standard. But he played his role and held his tongue. Whatever that is going on between Baelish and his daughter is no business of his, especially when keeping out of the matter means saving his head. And that fucker, Harrold opens his eyes when an angry thought crosses his mind, he clearly knows who I am. Harrold knew way back that Baelish has unveiled his identity. It was not hard to figure that out. Baelish treats him like he is his enemy. What kind of lord would hate his maester so dearly for no apparent reason? Harrold admits it was a mistake to introduce himself as Canolf. He was young and immature a year ago when he first came to the Eyrie, driven by pride and naive curiosity. It seems a bit too obvious now, looking back. Even a moron could see Falcon in the name Canolf (is Canolf a real name or did he just make it up?). Play a fool when you need to, but not enough to bring shame to your house, Lady Waynwood's advice rings in his ears. He did not understand what she meant back then. But now he does. No one sees a fool as a threat. The clever ones always die first when they wave their intelligence in front of others. That, is a thing story books won't teach you. He may not have tricked Baelish into believing he is a true maester, but at least he has enough confidence to say he regards him as a fool. But as if it is a revenge, Baelish has arranged him to share a room with the other servants. Stay warm with the others, my good maester, Baelish said to him when he asked for the allowance of the lighting of firewood in the maester's room one night, while he himself sat comfortably in his own solar with a fire burning day and night in his fireplace. Baelish knows he is the heir to the Eyrie, and yet he still treats him like a low servant whose life has no significance whatsoever and is free to die off in a gutter if he wishes. So here he is, sitting in this crowded place, trying to fall asleep with the others, playing the fool.

However, if Harrold is to leave this bloody place, Baelish could do nothing to stop him. Admitting who he is could immediately lift him out of this tragedy. No more pretending and no more starving. He will be perfectly safe in Ironoaks, once again enjoying the luxury of comfort he deserves. Yet, he is still here. He cannot quite bring himself up to the friends he has made. These honest people like him as he is, even as a low born maester. They choose to befriend him, without the grand title and fortune that Harrold Hardyng owns. Lying to them feels like betrayal, and a confession of that lie will be beyond displeasure. But does he have a choice now? He is going weaker and weaker everyday. It is only a matter of time before his body completely shuts down and falls into an endless sleep, just like many people did before him. Perhaps if things get even worse, he will have no choice but to confront Baelish and be on his way back home. 

"Fuck, I am cold." Murry whispers, clearly unaware of Harrold's brief absence, his teeth clattering as he speaks. 

"Yea." Harrold replies. He can hardly feel his lips. They must have gone blue already. 

Silence falls between them. All Harrold can hear for a while are snores and the sound of branches swaying in the yard outside. He once again shuts his eyes, begging sleep to come. 

"We'd be dead soon, Cal." Murry suddenly blurts out after such a long time Harrold thought he has dozed off already, his tone unusually serious and sad. "You know what'd be on m'tomb? 'Murry the stable boy, born in the riverlands, raised in the Vale, greets death in the Eyrie.'" He pauses. "No fucking no I'm not greeting death. I'd fucking fight it till end." He swings his fist in the air, as if that would do him any good. 

Harrold would have laughed if he is not so damn cold. The cold has drained away his humour and left nothing but the dread for death. 

"You won't have a tomb." He states blandly. 

"Oh." Murry's voice sounds wounded. He shifts himself away from Harrold and embraces his legs, while staring blankly into the dark. Harrold immediately feels bad for his words. All Murry has done is trying to lighten up the mood and cheer him up. He feels the need for compensation. 

"You know what we could do to keep warm, Mur?" 

Even in the darkness with only the faintest of moonlight shining upon them, Harrold can sense a mischievous smile appearing on Murry's face.

"What?" Murry asks, although he knows exactly what the answer is.

Harrold untwines his fingers and rigidly but gently he puts a hand on Murry's kneecap. He starts to caress his way down his thigh, until he can feel the rough fabric of the laces on his breeches. Harrold then proficiently unlaces them with one hand and clutches Murry's member loosely in his fingers, ignoring his gasping all the way.

"Ugh, cold hands," Murry says through his teeth, his mouth opened widely, sucking in the cold air. He catches Harrold's whist in his hand and removes it from his breeches. "And you know I like it slow." He smiles, placing his palms on Harrold's shoulders and pushes him down until he lies with his back on the floor. 

"Careful not to wake the others." Harrold teases. He reaches out his hands and grips tightly of Murry's manhood. Murry almost cries out but he bites on his lips and silences himself. 

"Naughty," Murry flicks him off and hold his hands in one of his. With the other one free he inserts it into Harrold's golden hair. "You have such lovely hair." He praises, his fingers stroking the scalp. 

"I do." Harrold grins, "But you have such a lovely cock." 

"Do I?" Murry laughs.

The Eyrie hunter lying next to them stirs in his sleep and lets out a few inarticulate words. Murry and Harrold freeze altogether until the big man turns and continues snoring. 

"You don't want to wake the others," Murry whispers so softly Harrold could almost not hear it, "unless you want them to join us." He leans forward and nibs at Harrold's collarbone.

"Next time," Harrold smiles against Murry's messy dark hair, sniffing in the mixed smell of horses and hay, "with Fran." 

"With Fran," Murry agrees, "none of us is as good as Fran with her tongue." He lifts his head and bites on Harrold's lower lip. "Are you goin' to shut up and fuck or are we goin' to talk all night?"


	20. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a rather short chapter in preparation of the finale.

Petyr wakes, with tired eyes and frozen limbs. He pulls at his blanket, thick and heavy. Jokingly he wonders did the gods steal away his warmth at night. He stretches his legs, and a short panic overtakes him when he cannot feel his toes. He quickly sits up and rubs his feet, relieved when he finally can feel the touch of his fingers. 

The fire in the fireplace had died out at night, leaving his room freezing and unbearable. He looks out the window and sees the glass covered in a cloudy white frost. Petyr shudders. 

He lies back down on his bed and covers his face with his inner elbow. The whole of his face hurts. That bitch almost scratched it off the other night. After the 'incident' he woke up the next morning with angry red marks on his cheeks that ached to the lightest of touch. The servants gave him knowing looks afterwards: the high lord shares the warmth of his bed, even at ill times like this. Petyr lets them think and whisper away whatever they want. The truth holds little value at ill times like this. No question was asked regarding the whereabouts of the servant girl. Many seem to think she must have chosen to risk her life and take off, like some others who had sneaked out of the castle at night to escape this living hell and the possible fury of the Lord Protector. Rumor has it that he would track down every deserter and grant them a horrid death. A silly notion. Why would a giant concern himself with the life of an insect? Truth be told, Petyr does not give a damn. The people are afraid, fearing they will end up somewhere even worse if they leave, so they make up lies to trap the others with them. Humans are selfish after all. They despise the division of their possessions but will gladly share the fear that hangs around their necks with others. And no mourning will be expected. When he was taking care of the body he felt... neutral. No reprimand, and certainly no remorse. He was simply solving a problem that could be troublesome if not quickly dealt with. He dumped the wrapped body into the mountains through the Moon Door, and watched as it descended into a black blur of nothingness until it was out of his sight. He is glad there was no blood, or it would have gone a lot messier. It was still unneat, however. Strangling is not a very favourable method of solution. Strangling has a sense of brutality and immorality in it. It is almost as indecent and ungracious as beheading, an all time favorite of the barbaric northmen. Poisoning, on the other hand, has served him well. Quiet and tasteful, many died without knowing what was ahead of them. Beautiful, almost, to slip an innocent drop of liquid into a cup and see a strong man dies a day later. No suspicion, no aftermath.  _Neat_. 

***************

"Eat your breakfast." Petyr says while reading a scroll in his hand. Another raven flew in today. Raiders were sighted in the east of Acorn Hall. Acorn hall is far from the Eyrie, but still closer than Hornvale. Time is running out, and soon there will be raiders in his land banging their axes at his gate. Petyr feels as if there is a lethal serpent at his feet, gradually making its way upward to stuck its long fangs into his throat.  

"No." Robert Arryn declares willfully, pushing away his cheese and stale bread. 

Petyr tucks the scroll away into the inside of his tunic. "No?" He turns to his stepson and says softyly. He crosses his fingers and leans closer to the table, gazing at the boy with an almost amused look. 

Robert looks less certain now. He bows his head and his gaze roams between his stepfather and his meal.  

"Fine. I will." He surrenders, and starts tearing the bread into smaller pieces, "but only if I get to have lemon cakes for supp--" 

The sound Petyr makes when he slams his palm on the wooden table is so loud and sudden that Robert jumps in his seat.  

"The Lord Arryn will do as he is told and no more," Petyr glares at the child, enjoying the look of fright on his face. There is a tingling pain rushing down his fingers. "Or otherwise I will have you starved." He hisses out his last word and sqeezes a light smile at his stepson.  

It is an apparent threat, though one that holds a lot less power than it sounds. Robert Arryn, as unpleasant as his existence is, has a role to play in Petyr's game. Doubtlessly, his role is to die, but only at the appropriate time, and the time is yet to come. Petyr needs the child to live, although the state and welfare of his lordship is far from his concern. As long as there is air from his nose and thudding from his heart, Petyr is satisfied. Of course, the child does not have knowledge of Petyr's endgame. As Robert eyes his stepfather he sees a man who hates him almost as much as he fears him.  

Robert picks up his bread again, his shoulders trembling in horror as he takes a bite out of his food. 

Petyr snatches a handful of mint leaves from a bowl and shoves them in his mouth. "Good." He says to the child as he chews, his grey eyes watching scornfully until the boy finishes his meal in haste. 

***************

"There cannot be any more delay, m'lord." Hardyng licks his lips and says timidly. He is rubbing his hands like a sickly old man, his heavy chains dangling from his neck chattering along with his every move. "You have to evacuate your men and depart to the Gate of Moon, while the descending passage is not yet sealed and there are still men willing to bring us down." 

"I," Petyr glances up at the boy with disdain. "Do not have to do anything." He says, simply unwilling to grant Hardyng the pleasure of thinking his advice has been noted and taken. 

Hardyng furrows his brows and a hint of irritation flashes through his blue eyes. Petyr blinks, rather taken aback, but decides he must be mistaken as the boy quickly returns to his normal naive self and begins stuttering. "B--But-- M'lord, people are dying." The boy's voice sounds hoarse and tired. 

Petyr leans back on his seat and shuts his eyes. He does not want to argue with him. Hardyng should have run back to Lady Waynwood when the first man died of frost bite. With Alayne still unconscious, he has no business here whatsoever. He has been with them for months now. Petyr is certain the boy must be craving for a warm bed and a filled stomach. The Eyrie cannot give him that. As much as Petyr loathes the boy, he cannot afford having him dying inside his castle.  _However_ , Petyr thinks bitterly as he reopens his eyes, staring at the stone grey ceiling above him,  _he has no use for Harrold Hardyng if Alayne does not wake._  Without Alayne, the young falcon is just someone who will soon replace him as the Lord of Eyrie when Robbert Arryn dies. Then Petyr will be no one again, with no grand titles after his name. Could he afford it, to lose it all after he has it all? 

"I will consider it." Petyr gives in, understanding his game of denying everything from Hardyng has gone boring and meaningless without Alayne's presence. He waves at the boy, signaling him to leave.

 But he lingers. Petyr frowns upon him. "What part of me waving my hand telling you to go did you not understand?" 

Unexpectedly, Hardyng walks up to Petyr. Petyr shifts backward in his seat. An involuntary gasp leaves his mouth as the falcon stands in front of him, towering over him. Petyr feels small, like an ant facing a giant. He can see the shape of the boy's strong arm muscle through his robe. He is built like a rock, like a soldier. Petyr is struck by fear, as he sees the shadow of another man in his maester.  _Don't kill me, please._  Petyr opens his mouth, but no words will come. His hands instinctively reach out and grab at the handrails of his chair, the knuckles of his fingers whitening at the grip. His chest feels tight, as if his flesh is being ripped apart again. Hardnyg looks down on him, his blue eyes suddenly seem calculating and manipulative. Petyr's eyes widen as Hardyng's hand travel across his waist and pulls out a sword from a sheath that he was not aware of existing.  _Don't kill me, please._

"M'lord," Hardny says, his tone unsure and concerned. He kneels in front of his lord, holding a piece of cloth he just took out from his robe. "Are you well? You are sweating. You seem... afraid." He proceeds to hand Petyr the cloth. 

Petyr blinks, his former anxiety forgotten and replaced by shame and embarrassment. He panicked and showed his weakness to the boy, which is unacceptable and unforgivable. He is angry at himself, failing to believe his clever mind has just given in and betrayed him. 

"Nothing." Petyr says calmly. The least he could do now is to appear stern and unpenetrable again. He refuses the boy's offer. "What else do you want to discuss?" 

Hardyng frowns slightly and hesitates for a moment. "It can wait." He stands back up and bows. 

With Hardyng gone, Petyr sighs deeply in relief. He did not make a further fool out of himself, and has dismissed the boy in time. Not all is lost.  

 However, his wit is leaving him, he could feel. He was hallucinating, seeing things that were not there, mistaking one man for another. This winter is threatening to take away his intelligence, the only thing in his life that defines him. He would be an empty shell, a common man without depth if his mind is gone. He could not allow that. Many of his valuables have already been taken away from him. First it was Cat, then Alayne. But he will not forgo his wit, this no one can strip him of. But this world is not merciful. It has never been kind to him. Some sacrifice is needed in order to save himself, even if the sacrifice may bring great agony. 

Determined, Petyrs stands, trembling from the cold. He is to empty the castle and make way to the Gate of Moon, with or without Alayne Stone.

He travels to a cabinet at the corner of his chamber, searching for a small glass bottle that should do the trick.


	21. Chapter 20

A bird lands on top of her finger. She is amazed, and oddly flattered. She slowly moves into the garden to find a spot where she can stay and admire the animal. She is careful not to startle it, so fragile and small as if a twitch of her hand would scare it away. As she sits, the bird crooks its neck, its black beetle eyes looking back at her curiously. She lifts up a shaking hand and bravely touches the bird's grey feather. The bird chirps at her, and nuzzles against her palm, seeking for cover and protection. This brings a joyful smile onto her face. The day is wonderful, with the sun shining so bright and the sky so blue she feels she is in heaven. Nothing can ruin the day. Today is absolutely perfect. 

"Alayne." A man's voice rings behind her. 

She turns her head and looks back. There is a slim man standing at the entrance of the garden. He has a dark beard on his face that looks absurd on him. He wears a dark green tunic with a pin on his collar that glimmers under the sun, and he is walking towards her. Alarmed, she covers the little bird in her palm, fearing the presence of the man will scare it off. 

"Alayne." The man says again as he sits next to her, perhaps a bit too close to her liking. 

"Ser, I am not Alayne." She says, her voice shy and afraid. 

The stranger smiles at her. He lifts a hand and plays at the curl of her red hair. She feels uncomfortable. She holds her breath and shifts her head backward, away from his too familiar touch. 

"Alayne." He repeats again, his smile never leaving his face.

"No, ser." She corrects him. "Sansa." 

"Sansa?" Finally something different comes out of his mouth. "Sansa, then." He leans forward, intending to kiss her cheek. 

Sansa quickly stands up and distant herself from him. 

"Ser, who are you and what are you doing in my father's garden?" Pulling out all her courage, she demands from the strange man. She is slightly annoyed by the man intruding her morning and coming here only to say things that make no sense. 

"Your father's garden?" For the first time the man looks confused. He rises as well, one of his brows raised. "But I am your father." 

"No you are not," Sansa rebuts. This is getting ridiculous. Who is he to come in here and argue with her who her father is? "My father is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and I am his daughter Sansa Stark." Her father's name gives her confidence. She raises her chin proudly and stares at the man's grey-green eyes. "You are an intruder who has barged into my home. Reveal yourself." She demands his identity again, this time her tone firmer and unbudging. 

"What do you have in there?" The man seems to have missed all that she has said as he points a finger at her hands. 

Sansa looks down and opens her palms. The bird tweets, louder than before, and jumps in her hands happily, tickling her skin. 

"Oh, a mockingbird." The man comes closer and leans forward, intrigued eyes focusing on the small bird. "What a lovely creature. May I?" He looks up, asking for approval. 

Sansa does not trust the man, and she has an inkling the wild animal will flee the moment she lets go. But she nods nevertheless, although very unwillingly. 

He gently takes the bird in his hands. In the process his skin brushes over hers. He feels cold. Sansa notices when he speaks or breathes there is white mist forming on his lips and under his nose, as if he is in a freezing environment. Sansa furrows her brows at the observation. The day is warm and even Sansa is wearing a thin gown that exposes the whole of her arms. Odd. 

Surprisingly the bird does not fly away. It stays on his opened palms and makes a soft squeak when the man strokes it with his finger. 

"A mockingbird is a clever bird, Alayne." The man says, eyes still locked on the small creature. "They know when to flee in the presence of a hostile force."

Sansa opens her mouth to remind her she is Sansa and not Alayne, but before the words could leave her the man abruptly tightens his fingers and squeezes the animal. The bird makes the most horrifying noise as it is being crushed to death. Sansa screams, scratching the man's chest begging him to let go. The man seems indifferent as he continues to stare at his hands, his eyes cold and without mercy. 

Without a warning the man reopens his palms. A dark grey shadow dashes out and disappears into the trees. Sansa sits back down, panting with cold sweat running down her neck. 

"Why did you do that?" She whispers, not looking at the man, her throat dry and aching. 

"An example." He shrugs, and sits next to her. 

Sansa glares at him with dismay and hatred. "You are a monster." 

"But now it will know never to trust humans again. As humans are usually fairly cruel to animals, especially animals who have no alertness for danger. It is a good thing, what I did." 

"No. You are a monster." She squints at him. He cannot just do something so terrible and justifies it with a rightful reason. It is just... wrong. "You almost killed it." 

"Aye, but I did not." He laughs, his laughter unnatural and forced. "That is the mere difference between teaching it a lesson and being actually cruel to it." He suddenly leans forward and cups her jaw. She is stunned and is yet to react. "Or else you will learn your lesson one day in a hard way, to you sorrow, sweetling." 

The man disgusts her. She flicks his hand away and stands up. "I am not your sweetling." She turns and proceeds to leave. 

The man laughs again. He catches her wrist and pulls her to him. She freezes, eyes widen in fear. 

"You are my sweetling," He murmurs in her ear. She can smell the mint in his breath. "You always will be." He presses his lips on her neck.

She is suddenly on fire. 

***************   

The sensation of herself burning alive drags her back to reality. She slams open her eyes and inhales the air. She feels afire, her every muscle melting in agony. In search for a distraction from her aching body, she sits up and looks around, but fails to recognise her surrounding. This looks nothing like Winterfell. Her room is always bright and warm, the exact opposite to this gloomy chamber she is in. There is a dying fire burning in a distance, but the air is still cold as she embraces and rubs herself, wishing to generate some heat through the friction. She motions to leave her bed, but is only met by an unbearable pain on her forehead. She cries out in the dark, her voice weak. 

"Alayne?" 

She turns and sees a man at the door. He must has entered so quietly that she did not notice. A glance at him and she realises he is the man in her dream, the  _bird killer_. A feeling of uneasiness stirs in her stomach, but she is certain it is not caused by her physcial well-being. 

"You woke." The man says, his voice shaking in awe. Something falls from his hand, and she hears the breaking of glass on the floor. She frowns at the broken glass and notes the liquid leaking out of the container. She dislikes messiness. 

"Yes, I did." She says to him. She moves to stand up, and the man immediately rushes to help her. "Thank you." She raises a brow, still unsure of what she takes of him. 

"Anytime, my lady." He licks his lips and stares at her. The look he gives her makes her feels strange. She takes his arm in hers and pulls herself out of the bed. Her legs are stiffed and rigid. How long has she been sleeping for?

"Yes?" She asks politely, wishing to know his reason for being here. She retrieves her arm from his, and the man twitches his lips when the contact is lost. 

"We need to leave, sweetling." 

The last word brings chill to her back as if a bucket of freezing water has just been poured over her. She shudders.

"To where?"

"The Gates of the Moon." He replies, his hand slowly rising to her shoulder.

The location rings a bell in her memory. She remembers learning the significant cities and castles all over westeros from her septa. "Wait," She motions backward and the back of her knees brushes over the wooden bed frame. The man's hand lowers in disappointment. "Am I in the Vale?" 

The man squints, his dark eyes studying her. 

"You are the most extraordinary when it comes to humour, my lady." He utters. "But now is no time for jokes I am afraid. Please," He reaches his hand out to her. 

She instantly falls back from the man's approach but the back of her legs slam into the bed and she is forced to sit down.

"Do not come near me." She squeaks, fear rising in her chest onto her throat. Her fingers clutch tightly of the bed sheet. "I do not know who you are and why I am here. Where is my father?"

The man tilts his head, his brows creased. He looks down on her from above. A moment of contemplation and he asks, very slowly as if each word that leaves his mouth has gone through serious calculation. "Do you..." Something dark flashes through his pupils. "Know who I am, Sansa?"

She is surprised that he knows her name. She thinks for a second, but his identity is lost to her. 

"No, ser." She says under her breath, "I would have remembered if I have seen you before."

The man sighs, raising his hand to his temple and starts drawing circle on his scalp. "You've made this very difficult, you know." He shoots her a sad smile. "I have, I guess." 

His words have no meaning to her ears. She frowns at him, asking for an explanation. But none is provided. The man kneels in front of her and clasps her hands in his, the movement so quick she is not given a chance to pull away. "I am asking you to trust me for just a brief moment here," He smiles at her, his smile charming and warm. For a heartbeat she wishes to lean closer. "Could you do that for me, my lady?" His voice is quiet. 

Hesitantly, and almost unwillingly, she nods.

***************   

"Yes." Sansa answers to the knock on her chamber, lifting her head from a book she just started reading. She has been quite indulged in the leisure lately.

A man emerges behind the opened door. 

Sansa smiles, happy to see him. "Petyr." She rises, reaching her hand to him. 

Petyr walks to her, his pace slow. He bows and lays a kiss on her knuckle, his lips lingering on her skin for far too long. Giggling, Sansa retrieves her hand. Something dark appears in his grey eyes, but is immediately replaced by the usual warmth. 

"Your grace," He nods curtly at her. "I just wish to check on your condition." 

Sansa's hands instinctively reach out to her swollen belly. "I am well, Petyr." Her fingers draw circles on her stomach, eyes looking down with joy. 

"It is due soon, correct?" Petyr licks his lips as he locks eyes on her belly. He holds his hands behind him, his expression inscrutable. 

"Yes." Sansa exchanges a glance of excitement with him. "The Grand Maester said one more month and the babe will come. Can you believe it, Petyr? I am about to become a mother." 

"I am sure you will be more than capable." He whispers, as he leans close to her, his breath hot on her neck. 

"Petyr!" Sansa laughs and moves away from him. She turns to sit back on her chair, missing the pain marked on his face. 

"Please." Petyr says, this time firmer. He kneels and raises his hand to touch her cheek. There are undoubtedly longing and sadness in him that she is not willing to acknowledge.

"Petyr," She says, her tone soft and soothing. She wraps his cheeks with her hands, her fingers stroking his stubbled chin. "I am grateful for what you have done for me, aiding me in regaining my home and raising me to a queen. I will never forget your hard work and dedication." As a sign of appreciation, she lays a brief kiss on his forehead. The man closes his eyes at the contact, his neck leaning in for the intimacy. "But whatever that you shared with Alayne Stone is foreign to me. I am Sansa Stark, and I always have been." She murmurs against his forehead. Her hands slid down to the curve of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin. Petyr exhales deeply and bows his head. "Two years have passed, and perhaps one day I will remember. But till then, I was never Alayne. You will remain my protector, serving Aegon as his Hand, but nothing more." 

She lifts his chin so she can look at him, to let him see the determination in her eyes and the signal of the end of discussion. 

"I understand," But something in his tone may suggest otherwise. He gives her a light smile, a false smile, and backs away from her touch. "Your grace." He greets, and leaves her chamber silently.

Sansa turns back to her book, but her thoughts too distracted to concentrate on the lines. She sighs, and leans back on her seat. 

Remembering took her many months. But she recalled, every detail of her life in the Eyrie. It was like flash backs, as if she is reading the story of a girl she cannot relate to. She remembers the kisses, the caresses, and of course, the attack. The relationship Petyr had with Alayne was dangerous, harmful to both parties. What they have now is the best outcome, out of all the possibilities of chaos and destruction. They are too blinded by each other to make any logical decision that would maximise the happiness of both. Respect and admiration are the best feelings they could, and should hold for one another. Anything beyond that line will bring back only disorder and sorrow. 

Petyr is trapped, however, torn between leaving and staying, hating and loving, she knows. But it is not cruelty. The truth will only push him into greater sorrow, knowing she deliberately wants to forget all that there were. And so he waits, by her side, his clever eyes always watching, his wounded soul always hoping. 

It is for the best, she convinces herself, as she sits back up and continues with her reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of A Bird's Cage, I am afraid. Sorry for not publishing it sooner. I really am. 
> 
> Do I think Aegon will end up with Sansa? Not at all. But that seems to be the most suitable scenario in order to--- make a sequel to A Bird's Cage. Again, I will not make any promises as I know there is a great chance I would break it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
